The Ballad of Debbie Davids
by R. Scott
Summary: Or how Sherlock Holmes met Irene Adler. A story of childhood enemies, teenage rebellion, addictive romance, cold hearts and Victoria Sponge. In progress.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Hello! Righto, before we delve headfirst into this, I'll warn you now, it's an experiment. Multi-chaptered (shock), the longest thing I've ever written (horror), un-beta'd (gasp) and completely disregards original canon (run!). Worst of all, it's unfinished, but I really, _really _would like to have it completed. A little challenge. Not to sound like a junkie, but reviews don't half help, and I'd particularly like to know what you think of this seeing as it's fairly new territory for me.

Anyhow, this was bloody fun to write. This is just the prologue, the meatier stuff comes next. It starts off pretty nice and happy(ish) but gets a whole lot more abstract/darker/angstier/lots of sex and drug use and shocking profanities that made even me blush. I might crank up the rating later.

On a more serious note, I really hope you enjoy my attempt at creating a believeable incarnation of Irene Adler for 2010's Sherlock Holmes. It's all a bit of fun, isn't it, and it's great to be writing again. Your comments, good or bad, are always appreciated.

Thank you.

Ruby :o)

* * *

_October 2010_

It was the smell that woke him up. Trapped in the foggy recesses of sleep, John felt the stagnant aroma invade his nostrils, but he couldn't quite place it, couldn't put the pieces together. As was usual, he'd had a fairly disrupted sleep, broken by the sounds of his flat mate wandering aimlessly around their home at around 4:30, switching the telly on and off, rearranging shelves, plucking at that _bloody _violin. In fact, he'd been startled out of sleep completely at one point when he heard a calamitous crash from the living room, a strangled noise that sent a shiver across his body and a dull ringing in his ears. He'd learnt from previous experience that it was usually unwise to go and investigate, and when he saw the little red numbers glowing merrily on his bedside clock indicating that it had only just passed five, he groaned and fell almost immediately back to sleep.

The smell, however, was bugging him, both due to the fact that it was generally an unpleasant one, and that he couldn't work out what it was. It was so familiar, almost comfortingly so, and he raised himself up onto his arms to look for some clue of its source. His door was open a little; it was coming from the living room.

_Where_ had he smelt that before? For some reason, his mind drew up images of his father sitting on the porch steps at his childhood home, of his college days when he was young and reckless, of his time spent in the army…

It clicked into place. _Oh Christ._

He dragged himself wearily out of the sanctuary of his bed, mechanically pulling on his dressing gown, and marched into the living room with a murderous glare on his face.

"You're _smoking!_"

He was sat low in his armchair in his pajamas and dressing gown, his gangly legs stretched out in front of him and a cigarette hanging from his long fingers, his arms hanging limply over the sides of the chair. John faltered a little, watching his roommate's blank stare, seeing something dark lurking in the pupils; they were fixed unblinkingly on the wall behind him, and the expression on his face was slack. But when John's eyes swept across the room, his concern for him all but vanished as he spotted various ashtrays- all filled to the brim with blackened, stubbed out cigarettes- saw the numerous empty packets of Mayfairs, saw the closed windows being hammered by rain, saw the grey mist that had started to pool below the ceiling.

Without waiting for a reply from Sherlock, he stormed over to yank the windows open, rainwater leaking in, and began to clear away the numerous ashtrays (some fashioned from random pieces of china) with an aggressive efficiency, his patience with the man wearing extremely thin this morning.

"Where did you even get them?" he yelled from the kitchen as he tipped the charcoal grey mess into a bin liner.

"I always have some on stand by in case of emergencies," he heard his monotone response.

"_Emergency?_ You must have gone through about three packets!"

"The situation called for it."

"Oh really? What, you were so bored the only solution was to chain smoke like the world was ending?"

He marched with purposeful strides back to the living room, dragging the bin liner with him and feeling like tipping its contents all over Sherlock's head. He stopped mid stride, pausing to look at his roommate and feeling a little uneasy.

He hadn't moved; his dark eyes still fixed on that wall. John followed his gaze- and, with alarm, saw Sherlock's violin in pieces on the floor. _Well, at least that explained that god-awful noise this morning_. He blinked quickly with a frown- he'd destroyed it? He felt worry begin to crawl up his spine and glanced once more at Sherlock- still eerily motionless- before letting his eyes travel up the wall.

There was graffiti there, scrawled across the entire length of the dark patterned wallpaper. It was red, but it wasn't blood. John read it slowly, sensing an altogether surreal quality to the morning but not particularly enjoying it as he normally would.

_I WILL NOT STEAL.__ Yours, Debbie Davids x x x_

It looked like _icing,_ but John decided not to voice that particular observation.

"Right," he said, putting his hands in his pockets and balancing on the balls of his feet "So…decided to redecorate?"

"I didn't write that,"

"Yes, I'd worked that out, it was a joke."

"Very droll."

He watched Sherlock shift in his seat, his eyes not leaving the wall, before taking a long drag on the cigarette in his hand.

John swallowed. Something was wrong with him.

"Who's Debbie Davids? Friend of yours?"

"A woman who died over seventy years ago."

"Blimey. Ghost?"

"Regrettably, no."

"Okay…gonna give me anymore clues?" he asked, irritation seeping into his voice because he didn't know how the hell he was meant to deal with this, and he felt a little desperate with worry. "Murder? That might, uh…brighten your day."

He looked tired, John noticed. Worst of all, he looked _hurt. _

He hadn't known the man long, in the grand scheme of things. The months they'd spent in each other's constant company, however, had formed such an intense bond between them that John often marveled at how quickly it had come about. It was like a whirlwind, a pleasurable chaos that had snatched him away from his own tedious life and planted him in the throes of adventure. At times it felt like living in some kind of grand cinematic masterpiece, the joy that came with each puzzle the two of them pieced together like an addiction.

This was new, though. This darkness, this…_depression._ It wasn't him. Something had done this to him, and John had no idea how to fix it.

"Get rid of that, will you?" Sherlock suddenly moaned, gesturing towards the table and John noticed that there was a huge tin of Quality Street resting there.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell is going on?"

He watched as his roommate leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting out a terrible sigh, his eyes darting across the maroon writing and growing ever more tormented.

"Something very bad."


	2. 1984

A/N: Blimey, it's been so long since I posted something with more than one chapter I've forgotten what I'm meant to do here. :D Thanks so much for the positive response, hope you like where I'm taking it.

Ruby :o)

* * *

_September 1984_

_I will not steal._

He read the words before him.

_I will not steal_.

His eyes had started to blur a little now, as he gazed down at the sheet of paper in front of him, his erratic scrawl penciled in neat little lines.

_I will not steal. I will not steal. I will not steal._

Sherlock leant his forehead on his hand in a gesture of complete despair as his other hand mechanically continued to scribble the words, his thumb starting to hurt from where the wood of the pencil rubbed against it. He was so bored he felt like crying in frustration, his chest still hollow from the day's events, his eyes drifting now and again towards the front of the empty class room; empty save for Professor Clayton who sat before the blackboard, discreetly flicking through a _Viz_ comic whilst occasionally mumbling "_Get a move on boy. You're wasting your own time and mine." _Sherlock supposed he had some sort of pressing social occasion to attend to judging by the way he repeatedly glanced at the clock- perhaps some clueless woman had answered the personal advertisement he'd decided to place a month a go. That would explain the stench of aftershave that had slowly fogged up the room.

Sherlock sighed, glancing out of the window, his vision partly obscured by scrappy tendrils of his messy black hair. The pencil continued as if independent from his hand- _I will not steal. I will not steal. I will not steal_- whilst his stare lingered on the empty playground outside, the sky above starting to darken as the clock approached five. He'd watched as the other children had fled from every door nearly two hours previously, feeling cold with embarrassment and rage. As each head bobbed past, he'd kept a watchful eye on only one, her chocolate-brown pigtails trailing behind her like snakes, and gripped the desk in an attempt to control his fury, his blue and yellow tie growing tight around his skinny neck.

He had been watching her for a long time prior to this, in fact. She lived in the blue-bricked house at the end of his street, the empty old Victorian building that had been sat stationary behind a _FOR SALE_ sign for as long as he could remember- he could see it if he pressed his nose against the glass of his bedroom window. He and Mycroft had decided that it must have been the setting of some gruesome murder many years previously, although Sherlock had scoffed at the idea that the victim's ghost haunted it. Mycroft was nothing if not over-dramatic.

But no, the house had been sold at last, as his mother had exclaimed over the telephone one night whilst he sat at the top of the stairs peering through the gaps in the wooden banister.

"Oh yes, I know- some businessman from Italy. Well I assume he must be, that house has got to be worth a bob or two. Widowed, I think. I know- no, just one I think, a girl, same age as my youngest…"

He had listened, curious despite himself, but the one-sided conversation had done little to alleviate his boredom. He adored his mother but the life she lead held little excitement; he was too young, then, to appreciate the sacrifices she'd made, the struggles she endured since the untimely death of his father. But he saw the solemn frowns she cast as she cooked, or the silent tears of both grief and anger she'd only let fall in her most private, lonely moments; yet she held herself proudly and raised the two boys with a firm yet loving hand. Though he always saw the sorrowed little smile she offered him as she quietly murmured how much he resembled her deceased husband, each night before he slept.

She was always, however, a goldmine for trivial information and was more often than not his first point of call when investigating the local area, with or without her knowledge. She was a mother first- a gossip second.

He'd bounced up the remaining steps and eagerly informed his brother that the blue-bricked house had been sold, that the new resident was a wealthy Italian widower with a daughter his age and that he was due to move in tomorrow, and that he was going to go and investigate and he was welcome to come along if he wished, which of course meant he was _not_ welcome. History proved that whenever his brother did accompany him on one of these endeavors, it always turned into a petty, sour argument that often resulted in a punishment involving physical labour. Thankfully, Mycroft didn't want to risk it; besides, he'd drawled on in a patronizing tone, he had work to do. Sherlock doubted that there was any merit in meticulously organizing historical documents that discussed the Battle of Hastings, and had suggested far more interesting experiments but, sadly, the door had been slammed in his face.

The dead, cloudy summer was drawing to an abrupt close and the following morning, the air growing ever colder, he had chosen a spot in the alcove of a large tree, concealed in the wooded area that grew opposite the blue-bricked house; he'd brought cheese sandwiches and a flask of tea and a pair of binoculars, because he'd decided he'd observe the comings and goings of the new household for a full day if he needed to. He'd brought a journal and pencil, hoping he'd be able to get a glimpse of the inside of the house and to prove (at the very least to his brother and maybe, if he was extremely fortunate, the police) that some heinous crime had in fact taken place there. Because there would always be evidence, even after so many years of lying dormant.

It wasn't long before a great, red lorry had pulled up by the side of the house and he had yanked out the binoculars from his satchel in a hurry, almost jamming himself in the eye with them. A sleek, black Mercedes eased past and parked in front of it, the windows darkened, and Sherlock crawled forward on his stomach with a sudden, pleasurable anticipation, absently reaching for a sandwich.

The man who stepped out of the car instantly gave off an air of foreboding authority, and Sherlock would have known just from this first sighting and without all the supporting evidence that he was incredibly wealthy. His suit was charcoal grey and sharply cut, flattering his heavy frame, and his weathered, aged face was painstakingly groomed, his short beard graying a little and his dark brown hair slicked back, which failed to hide a receding hairline. Sherlock observed quietly as another figure exited the vehicle- a woman with thick, blonde hair and large glasses that obscured her drawn, thin face. Disregarding her designer attire, he instantly spotted the enormous engagement ring on her finger. So this man was remarrying, then. One more person exited the car on the opposite side, the vehicle obscuring them completely from view. Sherlock could just make out a small pair of shiny, black buckled shoes on the pavement beneath the car, but they disappeared behind the lorry within seconds.

His eyes followed the couple as they stepped almost elegantly to the glossy white front door, the gentlemen opening it with a grand gesture, beaming at the blonde woman. The removal men started the arduous task of unloading the lorry, the burliest of the three carrying a large, white leather armchair; the woman squealed in delight as they carried it across the threshold. Sherlock tried to see past into the entrance hall but it was too dark to make anything out, but from his position he could hear the clacking of shoes across the floor- must be marble. They must have been the wealthiest people he'd come across in his short life, certainly the wealthiest in the area. They'd be the topic of gossip for weeks, he thought with a silent groan, imagining the endless conversations his mother would be having with their neighbors. He chewed lethargically on his sandwich, scribbling down his observations between bites.

"What are you doing?"

Cheese and crumbs of bread spluttered from his lips as he stood and spun around with lighting speed, gathering up his things haphazardly and clutching them to his chest, the flask of tea spilling onto the dirty ground. Breathing heavily, he felt a blush crawl like a swarm of insects across his face as he eyed the figure before him, starting at the black, buckled Dr. Martins that were now scuffed instead of shining.

She stood amongst the trees as though she had sprung from their very roots, a pinecone clasped in her pale hand. She was wearing an ugly, floral smock and white blouse, which was muddy at the sleeves, and white, knee length socks, one of which had fallen to her ankle. Her long, dark hair was tied in a bun, loose strands escaping past the black velvet headband that rested atop her head, forming some sort of odd, messy halo. His gaze stopped at her eyes, big and wide and a deep, hazel brown, stark against her pale white skin and little pink lips, which were pulled into a confused pout.

Sherlock was silent.

"Were you _spying _on me?"

"_No."_

"Then why do you have those binoculars?"

He could feel his skin burning a deep crimson and he shoved the binoculars, journal and half eaten sandwiches back into his worn leather bag, noticing the muddy stains on his cord trousers. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Why do _you _have that pinecone?"

She looked down at it and a little smile tugged at her pouting lips.

"I like to collect things," she said simply, putting the pinecone in her pocket. Her expression then turned back to affronted, and she glared at him. "And it's rude to answer a question with another question. Why were you spying on me?"

"I wasn't spying on _you," _he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He stuck out his chin haughtily, gripping the strap of his bag at his chest with suddenly sweaty palms. "I was spying on your house, actually."

"Really?" she said, looking as though she didn't believe him, "Why would you be doing _that?_ It's just a boring, empty old house." She glanced at her feet during this last comment, said with undisguised malice. So she'd been forced to move against her will. He wondered where they'd lived before, perhaps when her mother had been alive.

"It's not _boring,"_ he said. He stood up straighter, announcing grandly, "I'm investigating a murder."

There was a pause.

"A _murder?_" she said with a sudden awed whisper, smiling at him now. He was a little surprised; he thought she would be squeamish at the subject, as most girls were- not that he'd encountered many. She was fickle too, he observed; her face had displayed countless emotions since she had appeared. "In that house?"

"Well, I'm not _certain_, but I'm sure I could prove it," he said sheepishly, his eyes still narrowed. He gripped his bag. "It's none of your concern anyway."

"Well I think that it is, I'm the one who'll be living there!" she cried incredulously, folding her arms. "What if the body is still in there?"

He blanched a little. He didn't believe that there was an actual _body; _it was just a theory. _Just an excuse to be nosy_, he heard his mothers voice in his head.

"Well that's not my problem!" he said loudly, irritated at having to justify his presence there; he'd not even thought he might be discovered. "I'm sure your father has enough money to get rid of it anyway!"

She opened her mouth and gaped at him, a little gasp escaping her and her face falling into an expression of distress. It made him squirm in sudden anguish.

"Fine!" she cried, and he could tell that he'd upset her. _Good_, he thought quickly, _maybe now she'll leave me alone. _"I was _going_ to invite you in for tea, but I won't bother!"

His eyes widened, panic setting in as she began to march away from him- an invitation inside the house?

"Wait!" he called, running after her. "Wait! I didn't mean it!"

But she ignored him and ran across the road, scampering up the entrance steps and disappearing through the door. He stopped at the tree line and stared, feeling sick with disappointment- and something else. There was some dark feeling writhing uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach, one that was intensified to huge proportions at as young an age as he.

_Guilt._

_

* * *

_It wasn't long before their paths crossed again.

The following day after yanking his woolen coat on his scrawny frame, his mother dumped an upside down Quality Street tin in his arms, inside which he'd seen her place an enormous Victoria Sponge. He swallowed, glancing at it wearily.

"Why have I got this?"

"Don't be cheeky," she said warningly, buttoning her own coat. "You're coming with me to say hello to the new neighbors."

His face paled.

"_What?"_

"It's only polite to welcome them. Besides, you are always asking about that house, Sherlock. Aren't you interested to see what's inside?"

He stared up at her as though she'd betrayed him in the worst way possible, and felt like throwing the tin on the floor.

"Well, why can't you take Mycroft?" he whined, frowning at her as she put some lipstick on hurriedly. She rolled her eyes.

"You know that your brother is busy with his school project," she sighed. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking of his brother cooped away in the pleasant darkness of his room, scribbling away at his precious essay on the Norman invasion and never hating him more. "Besides, we won't be there for long."

She glanced down fondly at him and attempted to smooth down his hair, but it sprung back up stubbornly. He continued to glare at her as though she'd sentenced him to death.

He stood behind her polyester-clad legs with the tin at his chest as they waited at the door of the blue-bricked house; he glanced nervously at the large arched windows for any sign of life within. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so nervous; his first day at school, perhaps, but his expectations of that disaster had been met and to this day he spent his lunchtimes alone in the library or, on particularly bad days, a toilet cubicle. No, this was a different kind of nervousness; something that was clawing away at him ever more deeply the longer they stood there waiting.

The door suddenly opened to reveal the large gentleman, suited and sharp as he had been yesterday and his mother, a little taken aback, beamed brightly at him.

Sherlock barely glanced at him though. Hiding behind the man's legs and mirroring his own stance stood _her._

"Hello! I'm Marion Holmes and this is my son, Sherlock. We, uh, just wanted to pop by and say welcome to the area. If you ever need anything, we're at number 12."

The speech sounded like she had rehearsed it, and Sherlock saw the weary expression on the man's face before he masked it with a relaxed grin of his own. His eyes flicked back down to the girl, who was staring at him with a sly, laughing smile. No longer upset, then. Fickle.

"Of course, of course!" said the man, patting the young girl on the head. "How thoughtful of you. Come in, please, please."

His mother placed a hand on his back and nudged him forward and he stumbled a little, glancing down at the large black and white marble floor tiles, then back up to the young girl. She was still smiling as though she held some hideous secret and he watched her warily, as though she might trick him.

"Richard Adler," the gentleman was saying, shaking his mother's hand. He then glanced down at the girl with simple adoration. "And this is my daughter, Irene."

_Irene_. For some reason, he could feel himself blushing again.

"It's lovely to meet you Mrs. Holmes," she said suddenly, holding out her own hand. Something about the sickly way she said this made Sherlock grit his teeth together and glare.

"Hello Irene," his mother said lovingly, bending down so that she could shake her hand. "What a pretty name. How old are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm ten next week," Irene said with a gap-tooth grin, and he noticed her attire was much neater than yesterday, her hair pulled back into a glossy plait and her short-sleeved red dress spotless. She wriggled a little, pulling at the hem and he frowned further; her father and stepmother had obviously forced her into it, just like they'd forced her to move from her home and he could almost see the deep set resentment that lurked behind her false smile.

"Same as my Sherlock!" his mother said brightly, as if she hadn't been told this information two days ago, grinning down at him and ruffling his hair. He grimaced. "Well, I'm sure these two will get along famously!"

Sherlock wanted to groan at his mother's naivety as he often did, but instead offered a strained smile, staring quickly down at the Quality Street tin. Before he knew it, Richard Adler was leading his mother through a door to their right whilst she chatted for England and he was left alone with the girl in the grand entranceway. He looked around keenly, at the lush red-carpeted stairway and the impossible height of the ceiling where a great chandelier hung brightly above. He swallowed, intimidated, before facing the girl- _Irene- _once more, who was looking at him with a curious expression.

"What kind of name is _Sherlock?" _she asked, a cruel edge to her voice. He sniffed, used to being teased about his name but feeling hurt anyway- more so than usual.

"I can't see how Irene is any better," he murmured, feeling absurdly shy and hating himself for it. He clung to the tin like it was a buoyancy aid, his only support as he continued to float adrift in a tempestuous ocean.

"_Irene_ was my grandmother's name," she said with a smug air, folding her arms again; she did that whenever she felt vulnerable then, he noted. "Anyway- are you going to say sorry about yesterday?"

Sherlock swallowed, frowning at her like it was a trap. The truth was, the more he played yesterday's events over in his head, the more tormented with guilt he became. He'd rolled around in his bed, her distraught expression swimming in and out of his vision and at that point he'd wanted nothing more than to grovel at her feet for forgiveness, thinking he'd never get a good night's sleep again.

Now, though, something lurked in her eyes that he'd only seen a glimpse of yesterday; some deceptive, selfish glint.

"Say sorry," she said with a smirk "And I'll tell you what I found in the attic."

"I'm sorry."

* * *

She dragged him by the sleeve of his duffle coat up the endless marble staircases and he gawped at the size of the house from within, still clutching the tin under one arm and trying to catch his breath. She was giggling as she skipped down hallway after hallway- at times he had to run to catch up with her- and it sounded musical, the harmonious melody laced with cunning.

"It's huge," she was saying, slowing down a little when they reached another red-carpeted corridor and he stared in awe at the bookcase that ran floor-to-ceiling along the wall. "The house, I mean. I spent all day going through every room, looking for evidence. But all I found were some dusty old books- until I pulled down the ladder in my room…"

He tried to listen but his eyes were fixed upon the door that she'd stopped in front of. Her name was painted on the white door in deep crimson ink, like a ribbon that curved and danced to form each letter. Flowers dotted around the text and she stood beneath it like she was part of the painting herself, an expectant grin on her face.

"You have to swear you won't tell anyone else," she whispered. "It's _mine_ now, _I _found it."

He nodded dumbly, still staring at her door like it was the gateway to some terrible dimension, freezing to the spot as her tiny slender hand turned the rusty handle and she opened it.

The first thing that hit him was bright, lemon yellow, and the sun bounced across the walls through white, gossamer curtains, adding an ethereal quality to the scene. He stood at the threshold while she skipped in, watching the light dance across the wooden floorboards, noticing the little pattern of daisies that ran along the white skirting board, saw the double four poster with painted white beams and yellow and white gingham sheets. He looked up at the ceiling and saw the little square door that lead to the attic.

"Are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?"

Glaring petulantly, he hesitantly stepped through and she raced to shut the door behind him, still grinning madly. He didn't even try to smile, the frown he'd worn whilst standing on the stone steps plastered permanently on his face as he glanced around nervously, keeping an eye-out for trap doors or crossbows or any other immediate danger.

Because he had already decided the moment he'd laid eyes on her that she was completely untrustworthy.

Her room was full of trinkets that took up every free space on her shelves or drawers or windowsill. There was a collection of pinecones on her bedside cabinet next to some rose quartz and jade stones, a rubix cube and a bright, colour photograph of a baby Irene being carried by a woman with rich, honey coloured hair, whose smile was mesmerisingly lovely. Beside that was an open velvet box full of jewelry, many pieces genuine gold or silver encasing precious gems.

He reached for the photograph, trailing a finger across the glass and pulling off a thin film of dust.

"Is that your mother?"

She ripped the frame from the desk and held it at her chest, her mouth a tight line and a fiery emotion in her eyes.

"_Yes._ Don't touch it."

"Okay."

She nodded slowly and placed the photograph back, before smiling shyly and walking around the side of her bed, diving underneath so she could pull something out. His eyes continued to wander across the wide expanse of her room, all the while his cheeks burning. He had never been in another child's room before, let alone a _girl's _room. He didn't know what to think; he did think however that it was at least three times as big as his own room. He adjusted the weight of the tin in his arms, the smell of the butter-cream icing beginning to swim out.

"I was just nosing around in the attic, when I saw something," she was saying, her voice muffled as she maneuvered under the bed. He watched her little legs, clad in white cotton tights, wave madly around in the open air. "It was a _drawer._ It had been wallpapered over but I could see the outline, so I got a pencil and scratched through the surface…"

As she crawled on her belly out from beneath the bed, Sherlock saw she was carrying the very drawer she'd been talking about. The wood was old and dense with damp, filled with scraps and sheets of yellowed paper, and she dropped it unceremoniously on the floor at his feet. He stood watching, motionless.

"Come and look then!" she said with a grin from her position on the floor and, feeling foolish, he knelt opposite from her, the drawer between them. He placed the Quality Street tin beside it.

"What's in _there_, anyway?" she asked, briefly distracted.

"A sponge cake," he said, a little defensively. "My mother baked it."

She smiled as if all her Christmases had come at once. "Brilliant!" she cried, and before he could protest she'd pulled it open, immediately running a finger along side where the icing was and licking it clean with a _smack_. "Wow, thanks!"

He grimaced a little, but his eyes wandered to the drawer again. She noticed, and placed her hands inside gently, pulling out a heavy, framed photograph. She was smiling as though preparing to tell some sort of horrific ghost story, and handed him the photo frame like it was buried treasure.

It was a sepia-coloured image that had faded terribly with age, depicting a man and woman on their wedding day. The man was in army attire; Sherlock guessed from as old as the 20's, and he gazed at the woman beside him in the picture with such an intensity that for a moment it looked to Sherlock as though he must hate her. But no, the skinny yet oddly pretty woman was staring up at him with the same expression, and on _her_ face it was impossible to mistake the stare of one passionately in love.

"It's from 1929," whispered Irene, as though even speaking loudly might break the glass, "I looked on the back. I was careful though, I put it back alright."

Sherlock nodded, glancing back up at her and noticed she was eating the cake, having carved a piece out with her fingers. He swallowed, for some reason lacking the will to chastise her. Instead, the smell of it invading his senses, he placed the frame gently on the floor and reached for his own piece.

"Who are they?" he asked, his curiosity peaked.

"Debbie and Andrew Davids," she said, her voice muffled as she rammed the remains of her cake into her mouth. "It was written on the back. And it got me thinking, you know, who could they be? Did they live in this house?"

He nodded again, glancing back at the photo, a little mesmerized himself, and he suddenly wanted to know the answers to her questions, wanted to find out exactly who these people were, what had happened to them. Because the photograph _was_ like buried treasure, a relic from the past, and although his brother was normally the one who loved anything to do with history, something about the way Irene was grinning made him suddenly interested in anything she had to say on the matter.

"So I went to the library," she said proudly, puffing out her chest, "All by myself. And I found out."

Her sticky fingers dived back into the drawer but she didn't seem to care as she pulled out a clear plastic wallet with an old newspaper clipping in it- but before she handed to him, she gazed at him with bright eyes and a knowing smile. He found himself holding his breath as she readied herself for an announcement.

"You were right, Sherlock," she said, and he felt an odd sort of lurch in his chest when she said his name with such glee. "There _was _a murder here."

He stared at her, gob-smacked, a hesitant smile on his face, his eyes wide.

"Really?"

"Look!"

She thrust the wallet into his lap and, wiping his hands on his coat to rid them of icing, he picked it up.

It was a clipping from the year 1940, brown along the edges and the type faded almost to nothing. But the masthead was still clear.

_MAN FOUND HANGED BESIDE BODY OF WIFE, MURDERED_

_Tragedy as local man shoots spouse dead, then takes own life._

"It was huge news at the time, the lady at the library said," Irene was exclaiming as his eyes scanned across the page, most of the copy sadly unreadable. "I told her it was for a school project, because she looked at me all funny when I was asking about it."

A little awed, both that his own suspicions had been confirmed true (although a little disappointed that the mystery had already been solved) and that she had gone to such lengths to prove it, he handed the wallet back to her and wiped a hand across his mouth to get rid of the jam that had clung to his lips.

"And it was in this house?" he said, looking around like the ghosts of the deceased couple would spring out at any moment, unable to stop himself from smiling, if a little shyly. "Doesn't it scare you?"

"Pfft, _no!_" she cried with a bold grin, and his gaze was now fixed on her as she gestured wildly with her hands "It's so exciting! I hated this house, before. I didn't want to live in this boring place at all. I know it was years ago, but still, don't you find it really interesting?"

He felt his smile growing on his face and he suddenly felt a little lightheaded. "Yes," he said quietly.

"She must have done something _terrible_," Irene said dramatically "Like…I don't know, but it must have been unforgivable."

"She fell in love with someone else."

He froze as she suddenly grabbed his hands in her excitement.

"Yes! Oh, and they planned to run away together. But when her husband found out…"

She ran her finger across her throat, a mad expression on her face, her eyes crossed, and he surprised himself by letting out a little laugh, blushing deeply afterwards. Her other hand still gripped his fingers and the remnants of icing and jam stuck them together. He found himself staring oddly at where they were joined.

There was a moment of silence and he felt a chill in the air as she pulled away to shove the old drawer back under her bed. She suddenly looked sad.

"My dad didn't even notice I was gone yesterday," she said in a quiet voice, playing with the hem of her skirt, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. "Too busy fussing around _Angela."_

"Is she your step-mum?" he asked, curious. He didn't know why he was curious, because he knew this to be a fact.

"_No. _She's just some stupid woman my Dad wants to marry."

"Oh."

Sitting there in the huge space of her room as she gazed down at the floor looking lost, he watched silently and thought that she must be very lonely. She didn't have a doting mother who loved her, like he did. She didn't have a sibling she could fight with or try to best at every turn, like he did. She had just moved here, leaving behind any friends she had.

He didn't have friends. He didn't go out. Yet he'd never felt _truly _alone before, it had never bothered him as much as it should have. He enjoyed his own company; he _liked _to be on his own.

Looking at her, though, he felt it all. Felt all the hurt and alienation and fright that had wormed its way throughout his body, formed through years of being ignored, or teased, or shoved onto the ground, or called a freak. It was there, the feeling was there no matter how much he tried to get rid of it through logic and reason.

"Anyway," she suddenly said with a sigh, looking back at him with a little smile again. "You go to St. James School, don't you?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice still small and he cleared his throat, repeated himself. "Yes."

"I'm starting there next week. What's it like?"

It's horrible. It's full of cruel, taunting children who are wild and foolish and don't know anything about the world.

"It's okay."

This answer seemed to satisfy her and she offered him another toothy grin. He'd seen that smile a few times now and it always sent a little shiver to each of his nerve endings.

"I _am_ sorry," he said suddenly in a tiny voice. She raised her eyebrows.

"What for?"

"For yesterday, I mean. I didn't…" He frowned, feeling idiotic. "I upset you."

She looked at him strangely, her tongue poking out to lick scraps of icing from her lips.

"You're odd," she said finally. His faced burned, but she was still smiling. "Can I have some more of that cake?"

* * *

His mother dragged him down the road back home not long after. He and Irene had finished the cake and she was furious.

"Honestly, that was for _all _of them," she sighed as they reached the door. "Anyhow, I don't suppose we'll be seeing them again. Different class of people, the wealthy. I could see the two of them looking down their noses at us, I don't know who that Angela thinks she is."

Sherlock swallowed, his hands rammed in his coat pockets, thinking about Irene pressing her nose up against the windows by the door when they'd left. She'd ran off and had left a little mark of icing sugar on the glass and he'd smiled stupidly.

"But that little Irene seemed quite lovely," she said, ushering him in and unbuttoning her coat. "I expect you'll see her at school, Sherlock. I was surprised they were sending her there- would have thought people that rich would ship her off to some boarding school…"

Not really listening, he cast a long look down the road where he could just make out the blue-bricked house. He saw the high windows with white, gossamer curtains, could smell that sweet, sickly butter cream icing still sticking to his fingers and stood motionless for a moment before his mother shut the door.

* * *

It was a bitterly cold autumn and the start of term came along far too quickly, ushering out the bleak, wet summer that had passed. He'd stood in front of the mirror for fifteen minutes just looking at himself and running his fingers nervously through his long, curly black hair.

Nervous. _Pathetic._ But perhaps it wasn't nerves, this felt different. In the beginning he'd dreaded the school day, but over time he had grown used to the trials it offered, learnt how to cope with it, how to avoid it. So what was this? Anticipation? _Excitement?_

He was a fool if he was excited, he told himself. But he couldn't help but wonder if she would be sat there, waiting for him, the only other child she knew. He wondered if she would sit beside him whilst their teacher called the register, if she would whisper silly jokes or giggle inappropriately. He wondered if she would follow him around, enjoy the things he enjoyed, dislike the things he disliked, if she would call him a friend.

He wondered if he would like that. He wasn't sure.

Mycroft walked past with a sneer and smacked him round the head. "Hurry up, we'll be late."

The two of them walked along the damp, grey pavement, Sherlock wiping the red lipstick mark from his cheek, Mycroft sorting through the papers that made up his precious project. Sherlock imagined what reaction he would get if he yanked them from his hands and threw them into the wind.

Mycroft glanced at him and, as if reading his mind, said with a haughty air "At least I did something _productive_ this summer. What have you done, besides spy on that old blue house?"

"I wasn't _spying!"_

"Don't try and weasel your way out of this one, I've seen you!" he said with a bark of laughter "Watching that place everyday, walking up and down the street- you've never been out of the house more!"

Sherlock went so red he thought he might explode. He shoved his brother as hard as he could and watched as he stumbled back in shock.

"Alright, calm down!" he cried, still laughing a little but he spotted a hint of concern in his eyes "What's wrong with you? You've been acting strange all week. Even stranger than usual, I mean."

"Go away!"

He stormed off and heard his brother shouting behind him "Oh yes, jolly good argument there, well done, I think you've got me beat!"

Laughter rang through his head as his brother's obnoxious friends caught up with him and he marched on with his eyes fixed on the ground, feeling like it was his first day all over again and they hadn't even reached the school gates. He thought back once more to a week earlier, to that extraordinary moment in time that felt like some bizarre dream. He hadn't told his brother about the murder as he'd originally planned to- it was his and his alone, that afternoon. He squirmed uncomfortably, feeling a little sick, wishing to be back there where he'd somehow felt safe and simultaneously loathing that fact.

When he finally arrived at the old building surrounded by screaming children, he found himself looking for her. His eyes scanned the playground with a jittery motion, glancing back to his shoes every now and again, his fingers forming a tight, sweaty grip on the strap of his bag. It wouldn't be long before some boorish idiot kicked him in the shins or stole his bag from him, and until today it had never bothered him because it didn't matter what they thought of him, he had nothing to prove to them. He _knew _he was better than them and that was a victory in itself, surely. But now, he stood sheepishly by the wall, frowning as he gave up his short-lived search, thinking that being clever wasn't worth much if you couldn't prove it to anybody.

His head shot up as the already unmistakable sound of her laughter danced across the air and he felt that peculiar lurch once more as his eyes fell upon her.

She was bent over in hysterics, her hair in long pigtails, strands of it already escaping messily. She wore a bright red coat over her uniform that looked expensive even from where he stood, quite a distance a way, and he felt his mouth trying to break into a hesitant smile as he watched her shoot up straight, making mad gestures with her hands. The group of girls that stood around her giggled along with her- _with_ her, not at her. The air seemed to glow around her, the sound of her unashamedly loud, nasal cackle sounding even more strangely lovely than he had remembered. He swallowed, taking small steps towards her, his eyes fixed upon her in an expectant gaze as he waited for her to spot him.

She froze in mid spin when she saw him, and his hand itched to wave at her, but the expression on her face made him falter. Her smile had all but vanished and she stared at him like she would a stranger, the girls at her side following her gaze.

This time, their laughter was cruel. His breathing was shallow as they pointed at him, their eyes full of malice, and he tried to ignore the sudden leaden drop in his chest as she smiled and laughed along with them, barely offering him a glance as she let the girls drag her away.

* * *

Sitting in the toilet cubicle at break time and staring numbly at the graffiti scrawled on the locked door, he'd decided that he had never felt more foolish in his entire life. Foolish to even _hope _that she'd want to spend her time with him, that he'd actually contemplated the idea of having a _friend. _He almost laughed at himself, feeling mortified as he remembered Clayton introducing her to the class, how her smile hadn't been the frightened one he'd imagined but one of arrogance and spite, how she'd clearly adored the attention being lavished upon her. He'd sat at the very back of the room as usual and she'd bared him one, bored glance before skipping off towards that gaggle of girls who fawned over her coat, her bag, her shiny pens and pencils and her long, chocolate brown hair. It was like she'd been snatched away from him and he would have felt something other than embarrassed fury had he not come to the realization that she'd never really been _his _in the first place. It was just a moment in time now, more dreamlike in quality than ever before, and he decided he wouldn't dwell on it for a moment longer because such a tumultuous storm of emotion was the worst hindrance imaginable, that it would only lead to ugly, needless despair. She'd turned him into a joke- he'd fancied having a friend, a _friend! _Just a useless grievance, a weakness- leaches that used you until they decided to move on to greener pastures, completely worthless attachments that just slowed you down. He'd never wanted any before and now he remembered why.

The day wore on at its usual pace and he went out of his way to avoid contact with anyone, remaining in total silence during class and hiding in his usual spot in the library at lunch. He didn't read anything and instead scribbled observations in his notebook as he watched the others jump around like mad fools, catching sight of his brother from time to time, telling some blown-up fantastical story to his drooling group of companions. _She _had raced past at one point and his pencil had stopped writing as she saw him through the window, pausing in her race to look at him properly. When he saw something akin to pity in her gaze he gathered his things in a mad urgency and all but ran to the nearest classroom, still feeling the burn of her hazel stare on his back. _Fickle, fickle, fickle._

The last hour of the day, he sat stoically and without a sound as the free-spirited Ms. Walker, one of the schools decidedly more eccentric members of staff, tried to force useless, trivial facts into his skull. This particular afternoon was science, which normally he found some kind of morbid interest in when doing practical work, but today he copied down notes without any concentration, his hand wandering across the page completely on its own, whilst his eyes scanned the class as they normally did- for he found a much greater source of interest in the comings and goings of people around him, instead of listening to his teachers tell him how uncommonly bright he was, and that he would achieve so much more if he'd only learn to concentrate. He didn't need them to tell him he was clever.

Irritated, he watched _her_ routine more often than he did anyone else's, like she was a shining beacon amidst a dark storm of chaos. Lovely, little Irene. He scowled.

She looked almost miserably bored. Obviously the clear joys of being the new girl who everybody loved had worn thin, and the actual task of having to work was clearly too much for her. He felt like he'd won some kind of silly battle but was furious as he felt his stomach jolt when she glanced his way, catching his stare and poking her tongue out with a crafty grin. Turning crimson, he faced the front of the class and, for the first time in months, paid total attention to what Ms. Walker was discussing.

Ms. Walker- with her wooden beads and coloured rings on every finger, with her earrings the size of plates and her manic, bushy brown hair, Ms. Walker who he knew had spent her life alone with her cat, her earth coloured clothes covered in ginger hair- seemed a little more animated today. Behind her on the board was a diagram of various layers of rock, their types named, and the word _GEODES _underlined above. _Mind-numbingly dull_…but he forced himself to appear completely captivated.

"…and _this_ is what they look like," Ms. Walker said with a grin that said this moment was what the lesson had been building towards. He leaned forwards a little as she pulled a large, mottled grey rock from her desk drawer. "I'll pass it around the class. Be careful, I brought it from home."

The rock was about the size of his palm, if a little bigger, and as it was placed into his hands, he noticed it was bursting with deep purple crystals, white-silver along the edges where it had been cut and polished. He rested his chin on his palm and held it to the light, twirling it around and watching as the dull glow from the dense grey sky outside bounced off it. It reminded him of the pink and green jagged-edged stones he'd seen in Irene's room and, appalled, he immediately shoved it into the eager hands of the child next to him. He heard some scoff of laughter from the group of boys sat close behind him and resisted the urge to turn around, instead resting his elbows on the desk and holding his forehead in his palms.

Ms. Walker continued to ramble on about the natural wonder of the geode, and Sherlock's grey-blue eyes peered between his fingers and followed the spiked rock until it landed in front of Irene. Her eyes widened, their caramel colour darkening as some indecipherable emotion glowed behind them, her face turning a rosy pink. He watched, unwillingly fascinated, as she held the rock with such precision and care, staring at it as if it were indeed the most beautiful sight ever beheld. There was a greedy expression on her face, her mouth forming a lopsided smile, and only he noticed the little dart of envy in her frown as Ms. Walker took it from her and placed it gently on the desk.

_Fickle_. It always sprung up in his head, the first thing he'd noticed about her. She was ruled by her erratic emotions, a thousand different ways her face fell or brightened, her eyes aglow with some kind of deceiving enchantment. She'd lured in everyone around her with an almost frightening ease, like she'd cast some kind of spell over them, and for the life of him he couldn't understand it. It was like trying to catch smoke, trying to solve her, work her out; she was definitely more trouble than she was worth.

It was a puzzle, though, and there were few things in this world he loved more than that.

The bell suddenly droned its tiresome wail across the room and the others around him leapt from their seats in a hurry, desperate to escape the confines of the building and race each other home. They shoved past him, pushing him forward aggressively and he wrapped his arms around himself, that ageless sense of self-loathing and paranoia wriggling up through him at the sound of their scornful laughter, some note in their boisterous yells aimed at him. _Idiots_.

He reached down to pick up his things- and saw with some dull, weary emotion that they'd poured squash all over the inside of his bag, his books sodden and ruined, a purple puddle spreading slowly across the floor.

For a moment he just sat there staring as the classroom emptied around him. It was almost comforting to know that some things hadn't changed at all. The hurt that burned behind his eyes had dulled over time, and he closed them briefly before reaching for the paper towels by the sink behind him and attempting to clear up the mess.

From his position on the floor, he saw a little pair of Dr. Martins hover by the desk as Ms. Walker ushered the other children out of the door. He looked up a fraction, saw all the events unfold before him very quickly; Irene's petite hand reached for the sparkling rock that lay on the desk and, without even looking at it, let it fall from the desk and into her coat pocket. Ms. Walker didn't see a thing and smiled as Irene danced out of the door.

Making an unconscious decision on the spot, he gathered up his sodden things and raced out after her, following her with little stealth until she arrived in an empty corridor.

"I saw that!"

She stopped at his sudden shout and turned to face him. She didn't look guilty, was the first thing he noticed. He stood as tall as he could, feeling suddenly bold, trying to salvage what remained of an awful day; a day spent wallowing in self-pity and uncontrollable _feeling. _

"Oh," she said quietly with a small, crooked smile. "Hello."

This caught him off guard a little.

"I see you've made plenty of friends today," he said daringly, but his tiny, hoarse voice betrayed him. "You do…realize that they're just…sycophantic _idiots_ who have only befriended you because you're wearing a nice coat."

"Do you like it?" she said with a grin, twirling around and pulling at her red collar, "It's a bit bright, I thought."

He scowled at her, unable to believe that this was the same girl who'd gone all the way to the library on her own, just to research a murder for him. The same girl who'd been close to tears when he'd mentioned her wealthy upbringing before. _Fickle._

"Put that rock back," he said, feeling the soggy base of his bag, thinking of all his ruined notes, thinking that this one act of moral justice might remedy it.

She plucked the stone from her pocket and twirled it around in the light, like he had done moments ago, and stepped forward, just a foot away from him.

"Why? I like it."

Why. Well, he could think of plenty of logical reasons. Stealing was wrong. Ms. Walker would be upset. She couldn't just _take _something if she liked it. He didn't really care about any of those reasons though, and blurted out the first one that had crossed his mind.

"You'll get into trouble."

She let out a merry little laugh, bearing her teeth at him- and at a sudden noise from behind him, her face paled as she glanced over his shoulder and, before he could comprehend what was happening, she shoved the rock into his clammy grasp and, with a quick grin in his direction, skipped off down the corridor and out the door. He stood there motionless, staring down at the item in his hands, at a complete loss.

"_Sherlock!_"

The shout made him jolt forward and he craned his neck behind him to see Ms. Walker looming above him, staring down at him with such an unbearable look of disappointment and anger that he didn't even protest as she snatched the crystal from him and dragged him by his coat back to the classroom.

* * *

_I will not steal._

He'd arrived home with the words still flickering across his eyes and he marched straight to his bedroom, ignoring his mother's yells.

_I will not steal._

And the worse thing was, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to get the smell of butter cream icing from his hands.


	3. 1991

_December 1991_

"The fact is, he's gifted, Ms. Holmes. There's no doubting it- just look at these papers."

The Headmaster slid the exam papers across the polished wooden desk and Sherlock watched through heavy-lidded eyes as his mother flicked through them, paying little attention to the complex equations that he'd scrawled there and instead beaming at the little red 'A' that was marked in the corner of every single page.

She looked a little tearful and he suppressed a groan.

"Oh well I always…I always had my suspicions…" his mother exclaimed, delicately placing a graying hair behind her ear. She turned to face him with such pure love in her eyes and he squirmed in his seat, shifting down so that his long, gangly legs stretched out across the floor, crossed at the ankles.

"I believe he could go to _Oxbridge _next _year_ if he wanted to," the Headmaster said in a smug tone, glancing at him with a look of greedy anticipation. Sherlock could practically see the pound signs rolling across his eyeballs. "And with your…how shall I put this…_limited _financial status, he would make the prefect candidate for a scholarship as his brother did before him."

Sherlock could feel his mother tense beside him and he sent a glance her way, saw her growing a deep crimson colour and watched her hands tremble a little.

"Oh yes, well…our income isn't…I mean, I would hate for that to be a hindrance to him when he's clearly so talented…"

Sherlock glared at the Headmaster through his messy black hair and suppressed the urge to grab his mother's arm and lead her out of this oppressive room. Whilst his brother had lapped up the glory that was offered by the status of being a Cambridge graduate, the glamour and sophistication of Oxbridge wasn't exactly appealing to Sherlock; years spent in another tedious educational environment where he would outsmart those around him through _their_ ignorance more than his intelligence, only to be given a piece of paper at the end of it all…he could be doing something far more constructive with his time, he was sure. It was some kind of morbid curiosity, however, that pulled him towards the prospect of university- that, and the pride in his mother's eyes that simultaneously heartened him and dismayed him.

"Talent such as his shouldn't go to waste, Marion," the Headmaster said beseechingly, and it seemed to win his mother over. He rolled his eyes. "We only have one other likely graduate, and to see them both achieve their potential would be wonderful, I'm sure you'll agree."

Ah yes, of course. The _other _candidate.

He stared with a tired, dull gaze through the window to his left and spotted her instantly, as though his eyes had been trained over the years to specifically find her. He was sure he couldn't loathe her; their relationship had shifted into something far from the friendship he'd foolishly sought out in his younger days. He liked to think of her as an enemy of sorts- and that was even better.

It had spawned naturally through competition- she glared at him with envy when he topped every subject and soon she bested him with ease, casting self-satisfied little smiles at him, which he often returned with a knowing smirk, unable to truly dislike her in those moments because the challenge she offered was far too enjoyable. He smiled a little as he thought of their endless rivalry that had become so much a part of his school life over the years that he often wondered if it _wasn't_ some kind of friendship.

It was certainly the closest thing he had.

It was the end of the school day and she was walking purposefully across the courtyard with her arms folded, the look on her face one of pure loathing and she suddenly turned around to shout aggressively at someone. She flushed a brilliant shade of red as she yelled, matching her beautifully tailored coat, and she ran a hand through her rich dark hair in pure exasperation. Sherlock narrowed his eyes when another figure walked into the scene, his blonde hair slicked back and his shirtsleeves rolled up, his venomous yells at the girl contorting his face into a hateful scowl. Jeremy Northbrook must have said something scandalous then, because Irene screamed and, in a movement so graceful even Sherlock silently applauded, slapped the boy hard across the face.

It was widely acknowledged throughout the school that Irene Adler was beautiful; a fact appreciated by everyone, most of all by her. She'd long since her abandoned her occupation of stealing shiny trinkets and instead focused her efforts on stealing hearts; there was a trail of lovesick boys that followed in her wake, many of whom he'd seen kiss her at her doorstep or sneak off with her at school or walk her home with such pathetic hope in their eyes that he'd wanted to laugh at them. _She_, however, often proved to be a monumental disappointment in these situations, forever at the whim of her emotions, her need for approval, her desire to take whatever she fancied and throw it away when she was done. He'd frowned despairingly at her, unable to see why she felt the need to constantly surround herself with such agonizing idiots. It was far easier to hate her then.

He'd stopped listening to the conversation concerning his future and was snapped out of his doleful stare when his mother stood up with a grin, ushering him to follow her and saying thank you to the headmaster for supporting them in this marvelous opportunity. Of course, Mycroft had left home that very year and, with Christmas fast approaching, would be returning tonight to regal them all with grand tales of snobbery and new found wealth and whilst he dreaded the prospect, his mother was clearly bursting with excitement; she'd spent the better part of the day at the supermarket, the boot of the car full of shopping bags containing enough food to feed at least six people, despite it being just the three of them dining that evening. He dreaded to think what Christmas day itself would be like.

Shutting the door of the car against the ice-cold wind whist he leant against the window, his fingers covering his eyes in a gesture of exhaustion, his mother turned to him brightly; her eyes alight with something akin to nervous anticipation. Behind that, though, there was love. Always love.

"Both my boys at Oxbridge. I just…"

She reached out to stroke his hair as she had done when he was a small boy, and he offered her a tight smile, unable to bear the joy on her face, unable to avoid the niggling feeling of pain at the thought of gallivanting off behind his brother and leaving her in the house alone. Of course, it was only minor; the walls of that house were closing in on him day after day and if he didn't escape it now he feared he might be trapped there forever.

Ruffling his hair back into place (having long since given up on trying to tame it), his mother began to start the car, glancing from side to side and peering through the fogged up window.

"Is that your friend Irene over there?"

Letting out a sigh and informing his mother in a cold, quiet voice that Irene Adler was most certainly _not_ his friend, he peered through the gap in his fingers and saw the burgundy-clad slip of a girl standing on the roadside, her face turned to the ground.

He could tell even from this distance that she was crying, and as she raised her head, there was such an awful picture of agony upon her face he wasn't sure what he was meant to feel. He saw the blackened mascara tracks that stained her flawless pale face, saw her darkened lips tremble as she stubbornly wiped at her tears and thought that this was perhaps the first time he'd seen her famed exterior beauty that caused those around him to fall to their knees. Of course, he'd always known it to be there; but he found her beautiful in other ways.

That was an opinion he rarely gave much concern, however, and certainly one he considered to be among his most private observations.

He suddenly realised that the car was traversing the icy road and edging towards her, and before he could do anything to stop her, his mother had wound down the window and stuck her head out with a smile. He sunk into the leather of the car seat, mortified.

"Irene, sweetheart, do you need a lift home?"

He watched through red eyes as Irene lifted her head back up in slight shock, looking into the car and spotting him. He offered her a mocking smile, before turning away with a furious grimace.

"Oh!" she exclaimed ever-so-articulately with a sniff, and he glanced back at her again to see an awkward slant to her smile. "I, um…thank you, but…"

She looked to her left and, following her stare, he saw Jeremy Northbrook carve a sharp path towards her, the look in his eyes a little more guilty than it had been earlier, and Irene cast him a cutting glare before turning back to the car with a luminous smile.

"That would be wonderful," she said, not pausing for a second before opening the door and landing with little grace on the back seat. He looked in the mirror and saw her glare at Northbrook through the window before she jutted out her chin and shoved her middle finger against the glass.

"Classy," he murmured. She saw his eyes in the mirror and, despite her smudged make up making her appear an utter mess, gave him a triumphant grin.

His mother, oblivious as usual, pulled onto the main road and smiled at Irene through the mirror.

"So Irene, I hear you could be off to Oxbridge soon!" she said, her face one of pure joy and happiness, with no trace of envy whatsoever. "Your father must be proud of you."

Sherlock inwardly groaned at her niceties, but noticed that Irene was staring despondently out of the window, her eyes darkening at the mention of her father.

"Yes, well…I _am_ looking forward to going," she said, smiling politely back even though his mother couldn't see it, and Sherlock could tell that she was looking forward to _leaving_ more than anything else. "Although I expect it'll be rather dull there."

He raised his eyebrows and his mother's smiled faltered a little.

"Sherlock here hasn't shown much enthusiasm either," she said and he sunk a little lower in his seat. "But I'm sure you'll both love it there,"

"Oh yes…" Irene said slowly, and he saw in the mirror the smirk that was being sent his way. "I forgot that Sherlock was getting a scholarship."

He felt the age-old stagger in his chest at the sound of his name spoken with her melodic voice and felt his eyebrows sink low with resentment. Liar.

His mother's smile almost devoured her face as she went on to exclaim how proud she was of her two sons, obviously what she'd been dying to do as soon as Irene had stepped into the car. Irene, meanwhile, was staring at him with an oddly curious expression, one of her slender fingers playing absently with a loose strand of hair. His face remained stoically bored, and he rolled his eyes once more at her, wanting to get out of the car because he could smell her. That sickly, sweet butter-cream smell that seemed to be her natural scent, that seemed to fog up the air wherever she went and he'd decided long ago that it was this particular quality that he despised most about her.

The car pulled up outside of his house (after Irene had sweetly told his mother that she didn't mind walking the rest of the way) and the three of them stepped out into the winter air, Irene's hair tangled behind her as the wind caught it. As if to rub salt into the wound, she then offered to help his mother unload the shopping.

He didn't.

His mother smoothed back Irene's hair as if she was the daughter she never had, before saying her goodbyes and heading into the house. Sherlock stood on the porch and, folding his arms, watched Irene as she took out a compact mirror from her bag, groaning when she saw the state of her face.

"Good Lord, I look like a fucking corpse," she mumbled, wiping away her make-up and pulling her hair back with her fingers, before beginning to walk away.

"You were crying earlier," he said, stepping in line with her, his hands in his coat pockets and his nose in the air. "The end of yet another failed relationship, I take it?"

"Blimey, nothing gets past you, does it," she said bitterly, but she seemed tired. She reached into her bag again, but this time pulled out a pack of cigarettes and gracefully flicked a single one into her palm before placing it into her mouth. Of course, he knew that she smoked; he'd seen her go through a whole packet before, by the trees where they'd first met. She wanted to get caught, he knew, her hiding place on clear display before her own house- she wanted her father to pay some attention to her, wanted to _rebel_ as was such a common impulse among his peers.

He watched this whole display with a greedy fascination, however, her long nails like little maroon claws, the flame from her lighter flickering across each one of them. With a movement that appeared unnaturally elegant, she closed her eyes as the silver-grey trail of smoke escaped her lips like a river, swimming under his nose along with that constant stench of butter-cream; but this, _this _was something else. Something new.

She waved the packet before his face, looking bored.

"Want one?"

He took one immediately, clamping it between his teeth and she leaned over to light it for him with a crooked smile, one eyebrow raised.

"Hmm, looks good on you," she said, but he paid no attention as he breathed it in, that charcoal sensation that tasted instantly gratifying, that swam through his lungs and filled up every part of him, that sent a shock to every fiber of his skin and fogged up his eyes, that was pleasurable in every way possible. He smiled lazily, each movement coming to him entirely naturally, and he didn't flinch when Irene flung an arm around his shoulder jokingly, holding her own cigarette before them.

"Nice," she said, and he appreciated her ability to sum it all up with one straight, simple adjective.

She stuck it back in her mouth and shoved her other hand in her coat pocket, looking quite dejectedly back at him.

"So go on then," she said with a half smile, letting out another stream of smoke. "Impress me. How did I fuck this one up?"

He almost smiled at her, taking another glorious drag on his cigarette before raising an eyebrow.

"Most likely in the usual way," he said "Your need for approval from your self-indulged father has lead you to pursue a path of clearly destructive relationships which both sustains your need for emotional superiority when they fail at your hand, and puts you in a state of vulnerability, the point of which is to garner sympathy from him."

"Ahh, I see. So, I want to be unhappy so that my Dad will pay attention to me."

"Yes. It's rather childish."

She nodded mock-seriously, managing to glare at him a little but he could tell her heart wasn't in it, because she knew he was right.

"You're painfully predictable," he said.

"Sorry- I'll try to mix it up a bit in future."

He found himself smirking at this response; he licked his teeth and let out another reel of smoke, watching in a trance as it danced up into the white sky.

"Why did you slap him?"

"He called me a slut."

"Ah."

They'd walked a fair distance along the icy path, and he watched her face with a dull gaze, her eyes staring almost longingly at the floor, as though she was sinking into herself, falling away. He observed her strong jaw and wild hair, her slender neck and the silver chain that hung there, plucked from her beloved jewelry box that had belonged to her infinitely more beloved mother. He saw the sway of her skinny waist tucked behind her coat as she walked, little heels clacking across the ground at the bottom of her long, black stocking-clad legs. She could have anything she wanted in life, he thought, and she'd never appreciate it.

Yes. It was easy to hate her.

"You don't need your father," he said suddenly in a low voice, surprising himself a little, and she narrowed her eyes, glancing at him curiously. "You don't need to behave the way you do."

Raising an eyebrow, she sent him a cruel smile, stopping in the road to drop her cigarette to the floor and stub it out with her heel.

"I know I don't need to. I like to."

It was something in the matter-of-fact tone of her voice that somehow saddened him, but he masked it with a blank stare as he copied her previous movement, his boot pressing the blackened ash into the ice and feeling as though some permanent change had occurred, as though something had shifted between them.

"You are an endless disappointment," he said in a quiet voice.

"Why?" she said with a baffled, hurt laugh. "Because I say it like it is, because I don't care what people like you think of me? I thought we had that in common."

"Because you could be doing something _better_ with your mind, instead of playing stupid games with those uncouth ignorant little animals, instead of plastering on your blood-red lipstick and wearing short skirts and low-cut blouses. Instead of acting like the rest of them."

He waited for the slap with some sort of pleasurable anticipation, but none came. She was looking at him with a blank face, a spark of victory in her eyes.

"I've seen you looking at me," she said, her voice deathly quiet, and he felt himself tense, some foreign feeling that hadn't pained him in years surging its ugly head, somewhere deep in his chest. She stepped closer. "Always me, only me. Those others, they'll move on, they'll get over it. But not you, no- I'm like a little puzzle, aren't I, your favourite challenge."

She leant in even closer, her lips parted slightly, craning her neck backwards so she could look him straight in the eye, butter-cream and smoke drifting up his nostrils. He felt like strangling her.

"At least, that's what you tell yourself."

She'd wound her fingers around the collar of his coat and had pressed herself up against him, a satisfied glow in her eyes. He stood tall, lifeless, and felt betrayed by the juddering thud of his heart and the little black claws that had suddenly sunk into it.

"Look at you," he said, glaring down at her through half-lidded eyes. "Throwing yourself at any male who's near. You are a silly little girl. It's pathetic."

"This time it's you, though. Something _new_."

"Whatever it is you're looking for, you won't find it here."

"Oh, I know _that_," she said, her smile spiteful and enchanting "You're not like them are you- God forbid you'd succumb to such pitiful feeling, that you'd lower yourself to their level, that you'd _feel_ like they did."

He shoved her away without mercy and she let out a little gasp as she stumbled, a strange half-smile still on her lips. He cast her a vicious, defiant stare and threw his cigarette to the ground.

"I don't need _you _to tell me I'm better than them," he spat.

She stepped away from him towards her house, her head titled to one side and he was startled to see a trace of sadness in her eyes, the shadows beneath them that had always been there suddenly more prominent, the sorrow she kept hidden from everyone around her suddenly on display, for him. He felt he should appreciate it, should remember the sight, but couldn't see past all of her painful faults, couldn't get over the terrible fact that, somehow, she'd let him down.

She smiled at him again- always smiling, always her favourite mask.

"No," she said, and he wondered briefly if his stare mirrored hers, if it held the regret that dimmed the colour of her eyes. "But you need someone to, don't you. Because what's the point in being better if you can't prove it?"


	4. 1995

_September 1995_

The stubble grazed across his jaw like sandpaper, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip as a wanton sigh escaped the scrawny figure that had wrapped itself around him. His own long fingers were entwined amidst sandy, blonde hair and he pushed and pulled at exactly the right moments, their rough lips locked in an aggressive embrace. He'd backed him against his door, the lone light bulb casting an odd amber glow upon their bodies, and he rolled his eyes as he felt stumbling fingers grip his neck, pulling him closer. It was a chore, he thought, a pain to resort to such _primitive _methods but in the end he had no problem with it, knew he was good at it, knew that it was a means to an end.

A part of him enjoyed it a little.

The young man pulled away, a dazed grin on his face, yet some kind of private agony in his eyes and he saw all the helpless questions that flickered there, one blazing brighter than the others. _How had he known?_

His fingers were clenched into fists at his shirt collar. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Well. That was-"

"I believe you have something of mine."

He watched as he let out a choked laugh, as he ran a shaking hand through his dirty hair, and thought, not for the first time, that William Richards was a vile creature, thought that he was an easy thing to mess with, thought that he'd likely be a useful tool in future if he'd managed to get what he wanted from him through nothing more than a rough, well timed kiss.

William (who'd been hilariously dubbed as_ Will Dick_ by the other students) pulled open his top drawer and rummaged through the delightful sight of his black and grey underwear, before pulling out a pencil tin emblazoned with the smug grin of one Bart Simpson. Sherlock reached for it hungrily, when Richards suddenly snatched it back with a sudden hesitance, glaring at him warily.

"It's all I've got at the moment," he said.

"Yes."

He watched as his face fell, seeing the agonized nerves, seeing the years of indecision and denial.

"And you are going to tell Kathy about…_this…_if I don't give it all to you."

"Yes."

His stare was filled with loathing, his precious alpha male status collapsing further and further around him everyday, and Sherlock smiled at him knowingly, taking the tin from his limp fingers and, feeling generous, tussled the young man's hair before striding out of his dorm.

_Painfully simple_. Like every dull thing here, like every monotonous person that roamed the corridors and lecture theatres, like the ageless beige buildings, like the grubby red carpets, like the tarnished books and tarnished reputations; the beauty, the glory of it all, the timeless domed arches and cobbled pavements and mesmerizing grandeur- it simply passed him by, drifted into the foggy background, and as each dreadful day dragged past him, as he mindlessly triumphed in everything the place had to offer, he felt dejected when he realised that this little black tin with that little smug brat on it was his only reward, his only form of salvation.

It was worth it though, he thought, as he stood in the empty corridor and opened the tin like a small child on Christmas morning, as he smiled at the sight of that sugary, fine white gold, that gift of nature that freed his mind from the dreadful banality of life. Impulsively, he ran his nose across the rim, ripples of shock dancing tantalizingly across his tongue at the very thought of it, the rare and always pleasurable burn of anticipation low in his belly.

"Holmes!"

Without moving, he cast a glance across the length of the corridor and saw the stocky frame of Pete Langdon, his arm draped over a leggy blonde who was laughing into his shirt collar as she tried to stop herself from falling over. Pete was grinning devilishly at him, raising his eyebrows suggestively. His own lips twitched cruelly upwards, his smile laced deep with irony as his mother's departing words once more rang in his ears. _Oh but Sherlock, Oxford will be filled with people like you, sweetheart, your thirst for knowledge; you'll have enough competition to last you a lifetime, believe me._

"There's some bird sat outside your door!"

That sweeping statement did not get the intended reaction, obviously, and he let out an exaggerated sigh and sent Langdon a sickly, false smile, as if to say _well, naturally, _before staring blankly at him. With a gentle motion he closed the tin and placed it in the front pocket of his trousers, frowning across the space between them as Pete and his latest conquest stumbled down the dimly lit hallway to his dorm room before he could even bother with a response. Sherlock sniffed, caught the stench of vodka, rum, even _sherry_. This place truly was filled with unbearable dullards.

Feeling rather accomplished with his earlier success, however, he walked with little purpose back towards his own dorm, running his tongue along his gums as he tried to hold back an anticipated grin, his fingers tattooing an odd rhythm on the tin.

Of course, he hadn't actually expected to find a 'bird' sat outside his door, and he stopped moving completely when he saw her.

Her long, ivy legs were stretched across the carpet, goose-pimpled, crossed at the ankles, clad in little black boots with staggering heels. His eyes traveled up to the fitted black dress (hidden partly by her burgundy coat) that hugged her curves and finished at the swell of her breast; he noticed the silver pendant resting there, blackened a little with age, delicately sprawled across the plane of winter skin beneath her collar bone. Her hair was pinned up messily and strands of it escaped any way they could, dancing across her face; and her face, he noticed, her infinitely lovely face- lovely being not his own observation, but a simple fact- was turned his way, her dark eyes made even darker by rich, black kohl and shadow, stark against the pale, slightly rosy tint to her skin.

She was smiling at him, and had stretched her arms wide, splaying her fingers in a gesture that clearly said _surprise!_

He stood frozen to the ground, a terrible darkness rearing its head somewhere deep inside him.

"It must be my birthday," he said, his voice low and thick with biting sarcasm. She remained irritatingly merry, of course, uncaring, oblivious, enjoying every scrap of life around her.

"Nope, it's mine actually," she said with a sparkling grin, reaching into one of the many bags of luggage at her side and heaving out what looked to Sherlock like a large, gold and purple hexagonal tin. "The big two-one. I brought cake."

An upside down Quality Street tin.

"If this is your attempt at being endearing, you are failing spectacularly."

"Oh come off it, you're loving this."

"And the answer, of course, is no. You are not staying here."

Her eyes dimmed a little, but she clambered onto her feet with the tin under her arm, her heels making her almost as tall as he, and she continued to smile infuriatingly at him. He sniffed. Rum. And smoke. And butter-cream.

"Well I can't just sit here, an open target," she said with a hand on her hip. "Is it true that you lot can smell Cambridge blood a mile off?"

"Why don't you sit there a little longer and find out?"

"Oh, lets just skip to the good part," she cooed, like a little child staring adoringly up at some fantastical gift, "Go on, I love this bit- how did I end up here?"

"Sadly, I shall not be indulging you. Now, will you kindly get out of my way."

She rolled her eyes, a knowing smile still on her dark lips and his eyes scanned her again; he saw the little red marks on her knuckles, saw the bags beside her packed full of her things, all of them, saw the rich bloom in her eyes where the effects of drinking were still heightened yet starting to fade, saw her smile, always her smile, like she didn't care about the hurt in her life, didn't dwell on it. It was all genuine, all real, and he couldn't help but form some kind of grudging respect for her.

"I know you're dying to," she said in what he supposed was meant to be a seductive tone, and she bit her bottom lip. His respect for her all but vanished.

"A runaway," he muttered, reaching inside his pocket for the key to his door, "How very heroic of you. I take it you've found the bright lights of Oxbridge as dull as I have. Perhaps slept with a few of your lecturers?"

"Just the one, actually."

"Ah, I see. And it ended violently because you fell in love with him."

"Now what makes you think that?"

"Because you fall in love with all of them."

Her smile was a little tighter and she looked down at her grazed knuckles, her face growing a slight paler at his words. That was always her biggest downfall, her blasted emotion. If she could just learn not to feel she'd be a damn sight easier to get along with.

"And, of course, lets not forget your father."

"Of course."

"Because failing in relationships didn't get his attention so you thought you'd try your hand at failing academically, which must have killed you, I'm sure."

"No point in suffering through that boredom just for a scrap of paper."

"Quite."

She'd placed the round tin between them, her fingers clasped around it, and she tilted her head at him as she often did, like she was trying to figure him out but he knew that she was just as bright as he was, knew that there wasn't much for her to figure out at all. He wanted to see her, he was suddenly struck down with the thought; he wanted to see the real her again, the Irene that had a mind to rival his own, the Irene whose sharp tongue and cruel wit destroyed most who tried to win her affections, thought it was ironic that, somehow, she held _him_ in her affections, had formed some sort of odd attachment to him despite having not seen him for over a year.

"Which only leaves the question- why me?"

She raised an eyebrow coyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Why not?"

* * *

She was sprawled across the length of his bed in an instant, a delighted expression on her face. His lips twitched and his frown softened a little when she yanked open the Quality Street tin and ran her finger across the icing, sucking her finger exaggeratedly.

"Predictable," he muttered, and she laughed.

"Only to you."

He ran an agitated hand through his long, messy hair and, facing away from her, plucked his own little tin from his pocket and regrettably placed it on his bookshelf, hidden by a large hard-backed dictionary, worn at the seems. He wasn't sure he knew how to share.

"So," she began from her position on the bed, and he saw she'd grabbed a metal ruler from his chest of drawers to cut the cake with and was currently licking icing and crumbs off of it. She kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes happily before pulling out a slice of cake- Victoria sponge, of course- and sticking her arm out with it towards him. "My turn now. The path of your life if on display before me."

She was mocking him with this last, overtly grand statement, and he grudgingly took the piece of cake she'd offered him, sinking into the chair at his desk, spinning from side to side as he waited with a tried expression.

"You have rather a high opinion of yourself," he said.

"As opposed to you, who can't function through insecurity?"

"Get to your point."

"Let's crack open that little tin first, shall we?" She gestured towards the bookshelf; a little mocking giggle followed, "See what I did there?"

"That's all you can deduce, that I'm on drugs? My goodness, you may as well stop there- your skills are truly astounding."

"What's that old saying? It takes one to know one?"

"And your love for the cliché continues unabated."

"Absolutely. I'd slow down with that cake if I were you, that's not icing sugar on top."

Even he let out a bark of laughter at this as she took out a pack of tobacco.

"You strike me as the type of addict who claims that they're not an addict," he said, licking his lips in a lethargic manner, taking a moment to admire the way she swiftly ripped and licked the slices of paper in her lap before filling the delicate casing with tobacco, always something graceful about her movements, even as she pulled the little plastic wallet filled with little green leaves from her bra.

"Undoubtedly. The worst kind, I'm told," she said, hardly sparing a glance as she poured the earthy-green contents into the paper.

"The worst kind is the type that wants to be an addict, yet finds they don't have the capacity for it. You've only tried it the once, haven't you."

"You know me, I'll try anything once."

And she winked. He made a show of rolling his eyes, before offering her a lighter.

"So cocaine, eh?" she said, the flame of the lighter flickering for an instant before being drowned out in a cloud of smoke as she took a much needed drag. "Christ, vile stuff. Was it just through sheer boredom? Or did that delightful, curious streak win through?"

"I hardly think that matters," he drawled, noticing the slight throatiness to her voice. No, he thought; not an addict at all.

"Well it's always nice to know the details. Anyway, it was curiosity, because I can tell you're still bored. That's why I stopped by- liven things up a bit for you."

She flashed him a cheeky grin at this and offered him a smoke, but he declined, his trust in her always wavering, even now. Instead he took another bite of cake. He felt that indescribable little sting then- that sugar thick icing spread across his teeth, that bizarre sensation, some kind of delightful pain, and he swallowed it down with a grimace.

"Why do you spend all your free time at the police station?"

He did smile at this.

"I thought you were meant to tell me, isn't that the game?"

Because it was always games with her, always trying to best each other, and there was always some sort of dark fun lurking behind each veiled insult, always something enjoyable about conversing with her. She took another drag and let the smoke drift up like a waterfall from her nose.

"You _can't_ want to be a pig,"

"You have such an exquisite talent for stating the obvious."

"It's fucking hilarious. A cocaine user who hangs around with the fuzz. Classic!"

"I thought so."

"Oh I give up! Just tell me Sherlock."

And there it was. That lurch, that guttural moan deep within him, that stubborn howl that responded only to her, that seemed to call out to her at that always unique sound of his name spoken with her lips, flowing from her along with the smoke.

"You never fail to disappoint me," he said quietly, the lines old and worn, so rehearsed and tired. Giving up, he lazily stretched out his arm and swiped the joint from her fingers, suddenly needing it like he needed oxygen. Irene smiled, malice in her eyes.

"I know; it's a tragedy. Now tell me."

Holding it in his lungs for a long, expertly drawn out moment, he let it out with a calm sigh, his eyes closing.

"I think I may have found a job."

"Well bloody hell, give the man a medal."

"A job that I _like_."

He watched in dull amusement as her face went a little slack, her mouth forming a smiling little 'o' of shock. She reached for his hand and snatched her handy-work back, took another drag; she let the smoke hover in her lungs for a while before expelling it with a profound response.

"Bollocks."

"I invented it."

"You don't _like_ anything."

"I can't think of an appropriate name yet, though."

"Well I tell you what," she said with a knowing smirk, handing the joint back to him. "I think you'll need to be high as a kite to come up with something good."

* * *

It was the first time she'd shared it with anyone, she claimed. He inhaled for as long as he could, melting into his sheets, and she giggled when he let out a quiet cough, said she wasn't surprised because the guy that had sold it to her had professed it was some 'seriously harsh shit'. Then he felt it…that mellow sigh, the _kick, _the world around him collapsing. He saw her in a moment of clarity then through the mist that had drowned his room, realised with a jolt that he'd missed her.

"I missed you," she said to him much, much later in the darkness of his room, that space in the earliest start of the day that is eclipsed by the specter of night. Her foot was resting on his shoulder and gently easing across his neck; they were both fully clothed, sprawled across his tiny bed, their heads at opposite ends, and he could see every glimpse of her even in the dreadful finality of the dark moon, saw her bright eyes, wild, mad, filled with truth.

"You're fickle," he said, his voice low in his throat; impulsively, he placed a chaste kiss on her ankle, glanced at the now empty purple tin beside her, crumbs everywhere. "You'll be gone soon enough."

"Fickle, fickle, fickle," she said in a sing-song voice, always smiling. "The first thing you noticed about me, no doubt."

He jarred slightly, visions of his past blurred with little white spots in front of his eyes and he ran his hand along her calf muscle, his long fingers lingering on her skin.

"We should fuck," he said with finality. She let out a preposterously loud snort.

"Oh _please_ let me hear your faultless reasoning behind that idea."

"It is common practice in these parts, I'm told. I think it would be interesting."

She leant forwards, slowly, a sleepy deliberation in her actions, mocking the very idea, until she was sprawled across him, her arms crossed at the centre of his stomach and she rested her chin there like a bored child in class.

"I think it would be _very _interesting," she said. "But sadly I will have to decline."

"You won't fall in love with me, I can assure you."

"The exception that proves the rule, are you?"

"I give you my word."

She offered him a grin at this, her faultless, constant smile, her damning beauty, and he marveled a little at how she had been graced with so many perfections. She ran a hand through his hair, though he hardly felt it, and saw with some alarm a sudden sorrow in her gaze.

"I'd rather not risk it," she whispered.

* * *

He woke up with unbearably sluggish movements, the world appearing black and white for an instant before dulled colour bled in, the harsh daylight blinding. It was colder than before, the first thing he thought, and he forced himself up from his bed- still fully clothed. He frowned, suddenly remembering he hadn't fallen asleep alone; the shape of some other figure had left a ghostly imprint on his bed sheets.

That, and a Quality Street tin.

Jolting forwards, a horrible thudding in his heart, he lunged madly for his bookshelf, throwing the ancient, hard-backed dictionary aside and letting out a noise that was akin to a growl, an enraged sob, when he saw that his own tin was gone. Instead of the face of Bart Simpson, his eyes met the intense gazes of Debbie and Andrew Davids, their faces still aglow with love, the picture so worn now that they appeared like apparitions in the scene. He reached for heavy glass frame, his hands trembling with white-hot fury, turned it over and saw a little kiss marked on a post-it in the corner. Mocking him.

He smiled, something mad in it, before sending the frame flying across the room, the cacophonous sound of shattering glass leaving a dull ringing in his ears long after the broken shards had fallen to the floor.


	5. 1999

A/N: Hello! Firstly, so sorry for keeping you waiting for this one- I've been terribly busy settling in at University, so I hope you'll forgive me! Secondly...well, it gets pretty dark in this chapter. LOTS of swearing (and one use of the worst swear word of all- sorry if that offends), lots of drug use. I've had this written for a long time and I'm still not sure, but this is where I was going with this story and I didn't want to keep you lovely lot waiting any longer. So- you can be the judge.

REALLY hope you enjoy, and sorry about the wait, I'll try my best not to leave it this long next time.

Love,

Ruby :o) x

* * *

_January 1999_

His love affair with heroin was like all great love affairs- sordid, passionate, glorious, horrific, and something that required far too much sacrifice. But was it sacrifice, he often asked, if the life he was surrendering was a half-life, a worthless life? He didn't like to think that he'd grown dependent on something, _anything_, but what he felt in that dark, suffocating chapter was something so intense he thought it must surely be love, that infamous vixen that destroyed so many, thought that it must surely be the only thing there was, thought that no other had been plagued by it before he, thought that no other could possibly feel the same.

Time spent apart was excruciating, the foul stench of life swarming his haven with a cold, heartless wind and he cried out sometimes, so mad in the throes of desperation he knew that he would likely die in an instant if he couldn't have one more taste. One more _fix_- oh how he loathed that word, the word which crossed the lips of everyone who didn't understand, the hopeless and the helpless so utterly dependant on their beloved _fix. _To fix his life would take more than another hit; he had no doubts. Fix, fix, fickle, fickle.

He squinted as a shadow moved past the boarded up windows outside, the moonlight flickering across the dirty carpet of the room. Another non-descript hovel that he'd somehow ended up in, the other squatters having apparently abandoned it, although movement outside usually lead to some kind of trouble- police, dealers, whoever. He laughed a little madly, laughed at how wonderfully _low_ he'd managed to sink, saw some kind of glory in it all, alone, king of all he surveyed. Groaning, he scratched at his arms, shuddering a little, another giggle.

"_Knock, knock!"_

He let himself fall back onto the hard floor with an absurd grin, a high smile, his eyes drawn and red and flickering shut. Blindly he reached his arms out, laughed as he felt skinny fingers cling onto them, as a weight crawled on top of him, as feverous kisses were planted across his pale face, as teeth clamped down on his chin.

"Fuck," she moaned, lifting herself up and he made out her face; a little improved since the last time she'd turned up unannounced. A horrid bruise had formed across her eye tonight. He sat up and licked it and she grimaced, half smiling. "I think he broke my rib."

"That could have been me," he muttered, pawing at her clothes, his fingers groping madly at every pocket. "I woke up with bite-marks all over me today. Must have been pretty rough."

"You're always glad when you can't remember," she said with a ridiculous sigh and he kissed her with a scalding urgency to shut her up, his spindly hands still roaming madly across the rough planes of her skin. She bucked her hips forward, pressing herself taut against him, when he found it.

"You're such a fucking tease," he murmured, pulling the little package out from her knickers, "I hope you showered this morning."

"This shit-hole doesn't even have a _boiler_."

"I'll thank you _not _to refer to my home as a shit-hole."

"Your _home?_ Well, I suppose a week is a personal record for you."

"To be quite honest I've become quite attached to the place."

He looked up at her with a dark smile, his eyes wide and eager and hers blackened with some sort of longing. A violent burst of laughter escaped her first, before she practically growled into his ear.

"Oh stop pissing about and get the damn thing open."

* * *

Irene. His gateway to hell, his angel, his eternal link to the dark underbelly of the world. Of course it had been her that had lead him down this particular road, as their paths entwined like two hideous snakes, heaving and bowing in all the wrong places, linked together in a revolting mesh of betrayal and something that must have been love on her part. He remembered how he'd watched with maddening envy as she did everything two steps ahead of him, how she'd writhed with pleasure on the stuff and he thought he'd never wanted anything more in his life. Not her, no, but whatever had laid claim to her soul.

It had started with one of those wonderful, needlessly elaborate _jokes _that the boys in St Matthews College were so fond of playing, particularly on him. The night after graduation always lead to some kind of infamous incident for everyone involved- he'd heard with some measure of disdain all of the horror stories- and when he discovered that they'd ordered a prostitute for him, even he had laughed in spite of a grimace. Come on boys, he thought- you can do better than that.

He'd stared darkly at the card, however- not a business card, just a little scrap of paper with one name on it.

Debbie Davids.

"Was this all your idea?" he'd asked when he saw her on his bed, completely naked save for her blackened silver pendant. His lips formed a dark little smirk when he'd noticed she'd concealed her more intimate areas with his violin, twirling the bow in loops with her fingers. Ugly blonde streaks ran through her hair, her dark roots showing, and he noticed her skin looked eerily flawless.

"Not all of it. This really does nothing for you?"

"I'd ask you not to take it personally, but I fear my concern for you is wasted."

"What happened to 'I think it would be interesting'?"

"What happened to 'I'd rather not risk it'?"

"This is work, not play."

"Ah yes, very admirable career path I must say."

"Well you know me, always wanting to make Dad proud."

"I must admit, I had considered this profession for you before but thought it might be a little too emotionally taxing."

"Oh, it's an absolute riot, trust me."

"And what are you _actually _doing with your life, other than fooling a bunch of over-grown children that you're a high-class escort?"

"That was the easiest five-hundred quid I've ever made. Although I'm a little offended that they actually thought I _was_ one."

"It's hardly a huge stretch, is it."

"Oh, you are cruel. Are we doing this or not?"

"I'd rather like it to be on my terms."

"So you're still up for it then?"

"It's not like you to ask so many mindless questions."

"Well to be honest, I thought you'd still be pretty pissed off with me, what with you being an insufferable cunt and all."

"Very colourful. And I tend not to hold grudges on people I know I can get something out of."

"Oh no, here we go."

"I thought you enjoyed this bit."

"I don't enjoy it when you talk in riddles and refuse to take part in fantastic sex."

"You stole from me."

"And I feel just terrible about it, which is why I thought I'd, uh, _make up for the trouble."_

"What's your angle on this?"

"I missed you?"

"No, you want something."

"I think it's more of a case of what _you _want, actually."

And that was it. Those words, the little tilt of her head as she'd said them, the way she'd licked her teeth like a wolf about to feast upon its prey. She'd given him a taste of it then, on the bed, his first hit, and that had been that. The beginning of his marvelous descent into oblivion. He could barely remember it yet he rarely thought of anything else, because each time afterwards never compared.

He hadn't fucked her, then. That was another story altogether.

Now, hundreds of twisted nights later; she licked the stuff from his chest when they were done, the two of them lying practically comatose across the floor and he felt quite secure in the darkness, listened to the creak of the wooden boards on the window as the wind battered against the broken glass, shuddered acutely through the entire length of his body as Irene grabbed all the duvets and made a perfect little cocoon for them, as she kissed every inch of him, as her gaunt face stared with a numb expression that was something akin to adoration.

"I fucking love you," she said.

"You hideous liar," he responded, his voice sluggish through his lazy grin.

"I think you're the liar here- you gave me your word that this wouldn't happen."

"It hasn't happened. You love your role in this little drama we've set up for ourselves, you love the kick of it, you love the reward. You love _this very moment_."

"You think _I'm_ the dramatic one?"

"Of course you are. You can't detach yourself from anything."

"Oh this is my _favourite _argument. And I'll stand by my always-correct statement that it is better to be a slave to your emotions than to have none at all. Doesn't it remind you of when we were kids?"

"You're clearly spending too much time with me, you'd normally be crying by now."

"Oh shut up," she said with a little grin and she kissed him, her favourite thing to do, and he knew he'd won that short-lived battle but it was one that never ended.

"_Debbie!"_

It startled even him and they catapulted forwards from the floor, her nails clamping into his skin as she clung to him in sudden fright, her breathing horribly laboured, the wild storm raging outside suddenly fading into utter silence.

"_Debbie! _Where the _fuck _are you! You fucking_ slut!"_

"_Do _try to keep it down!"

"Sherlock _shut up!"_

And it was true fear in her eyes, he realised, complete and profound terror and something about it made his amusement plummet downwards; he thought about each time she left this vile creature with bruises and cuts, a little more of herself lost to that ugly world and he'd never once considered the pain it must cause her, only madly anticipated her visits, her efforts, because of what her reward was, what she brought him.

He'd never once contemplated the fact that she did it all for him.

A gunshot thundered across the sky and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Tears were streaming down her face.

"I'll kill you, you _bitch!_" A burst of cruel, terrible laughter. "I'll rip your fucking tits off!"

"It's a glamorous life, isn't it?"

She let out another mad burst of laughter at this but soon her sobs were like moans, like something dying and she heaved a little, ready to vomit, in complete fear for her life. He couldn't bring himself to reach that stage yet, still in a bubble of calm, of delight, of elation; aware of the horror yet not a part of it, like he was watching some wonderfully awful kitchen-sink drama about the perils of life amidst the unemployed and the junkies.

But as it slowly faded, a thought crossed his mind that he was quite sure had never crossed his mind before.

The thought of Irene Adler no longer being in the world.

It struck him down like a bullet to the chest, like an epiphany. Of course, long ago he'd wished her gone, still wished it now on many occasions. But he knew the world would be irrevocably altered without her in it; ridiculous reasoning, but it was there, crying out in the place where his heart was meant to be, the link between them that he'd always denied suddenly blaring with a ghastly light.

He'd spent far too much time with her.

"I'm about to do something incredibly noble."

"I was hoping you'd say that," she forced out through shuddering teeth, through silent sobs, and she smacked herself madly on the forehead, as if it would force her into sanity.

"It's a rarity, believe me."

Another gunshot.

"_Please…"_

"Oh stop _crying _for the love of God, it's revolting."

"Just fucking help me!"

It was a whirlwind of dreary moans and sweat and fear as he gathered her trembling body and forced her into a room that resembled a kitchen, as the beast at the front door continued to howl profanities at the moon, and Irene was so out of it he thought she might forget the whole ordeal come morning- probably best for her if she did, of course. He appreciated the fact that she didn't beg him not to leave her, that she didn't tell him not to open the door, that she didn't wail for his life. _You'll be killed! You can't! _He was thankful for many things, when it came to her, and resentful for a lot more.

"Sherlock-"

"Don't spoil it."

"I stole it from him."

"Yes, I'd worked that out."

"I _need _it."

"Why don't we have this discussion _afterwards?"_

And in a gesture that he would likely not forget for all the most hideous, foul reasons, she lunged at him and held him to her like a mother would a lost child, like a lover would a mate condemned. He thought as he mindlessly clung back that life without her would be dull, that she was always a fanatical constant lingering beyond what he understood, always showing up with delights or horrors, always something different, something new.

Something _new.

* * *

_

_April 1997_

_Richard Adler was dead. She wailed it through every corridor, every street, every dark corner and every field. It was as if she were a woman possessed, he thought, and in a way she was, so consumed by that beautiful drug that she'd only allowed room in her being for one other thing, and it was Sherlock Holmes. _

_She continued to seek him out, much to his bafflement. Since the day he'd found her naked on his bed she seemed to appear more often than ever before, swimming in and out of the narrative of his life like an odd thread in some rich, ugly tapestry. Sometimes he delighted in this fact, but he mostly loathed it._

_He could never bring himself to turn her away, though._

_Her father had held residence in her heart for a lot longer than he, however, and when the news reached her of his untimely passing, something inside of her shattered. The selfish part of her; the part that had forever longed for his love, his attention, the part that had strived on in mad desperation, making her believe that she needed his words, his chastisement, his everything. It was only when she realised that she was no longer somebody's daughter that she understood that she'd never needed to be, and she didn't mourn him, she mourned the life she had condemned herself to._

_He'd told her this from the very beginning. A slave to her emotions. Fickle. She didn't need him, she didn't need anyone. How wonderfully melodramatic, how perfectly appropriate for everything she was. _

"_Come with me," she'd said, waiting for him in his dorm room._

"_I don't do funerals."_

"_No, to the house."_

_And it marveled him how little the place had changed. The blue bricks, the over-grown forest of a garden, the way the harsh light of the grey day seemed to strike it with an unnatural beauty. Thought that she, with her chalky face and blood red coat, seemed to simply cling to the scene as though she had never left, thought the place to be an intricate part of her as the two of them walked through the corridors from their childhood, thought the murder and the butter-cream and the cigarettes and the smile of Debbie Davids were all trailing behind her like ghosts, mourning along with her._

_He'd become tangled up in it all, inexplicably. She sought him out, she came to him, always to him, and she'd dragged him down, up, everywhere she went. He didn't follow, he had no choice, he thought he even enjoyed her descent in an almost twisted way, he got a kick out of watching her fail. _

_They reached her door and both stood still; she craned her neck backwards to look up at him, impossibly tall he was compared to her; she seemed to have shrunk inside herself, seemed like the child who had first dragged him up here over ten years ago._

"_I should burn it down," she whispered, her hand lingering on the doorknob. _

"_Unless you want to add arson to your ever-growing list of criminal activites, I don't think that would be wise."_

"_You don't think anything is wise."_

"_I think you are looking for some form of closure in a place where you won't find it."_

"_You only came here for a fix."_

"_I'm disappointed you thought otherwise."_

"_The tragedy is, I think you might be the only person who understands me."_

"_Must you always be so spectacularly naïve?"_

"_Oh don't lie. You love it. Love being superior over me, love watching me fail."_

_He kicked open her door in a sudden violent movement and to her credit she didn't flinch. Instead, perhaps more worryingly, she clasped his hand within hers before walking into her old room. His eyes hovered over the red-ribbon writing on the door for a short moment before he was lead in behind her._

_Dust everywhere, of course. Like a little lost moment in time, a photograph, and he saw the two of them as children sat on her floor, cramming cake into their mouths and pawing at an old glass frame, the stench of butter-cream invading him like a wildfire, which was of course completely impossible. But it was there, somehow, clinging to the air, clinging to her. The grip on his hand had grown tighter, he noticed, and she'd stopped crying when they'd arrived here earlier, her face now so derived of anything human. Yes. Quite beautiful, in her way._

"_Tell me more about your job," she muttered._

"_Stop trying to find conspiracy. It was a heart attack."_

"_You could prove it though, couldn't you? If I asked you to?"_

"_There's nothing to prove."_

"_So you won't help me."_

"_I'd gathered that this was your motive for bringing me here."_

"_Yes, because a trip down memory lane seemed so appealing."_

"_Stop behaving like a child."_

"_Is it because you know me or because it's a boring case?"_

_He pulled her towards him roughly, sick of her, sick of this, and he reached inside her coat pocket and pulled out the little plastic bag; he gazed at it for a long moment, his teeth numbing with the sensation of longing, a groan writhing up through his chest ready to burst any minute. It was always wild, always insane, and she smiled a little through her despair, something rotten about it. Pressed up against him, she placed her fingers gently on his jaw; she was trembling, so destroyed, so infinitely interesting._

"_You are never boring," he murmured, the bag clutched in his hand like a life-line, the anchor, the sail, and she let out a breathless sort of laugh._

"_You don't need to tell me that."_

"_Someone has to. Or else what's the point?"_

_Another half-hearted giggle, visions of the past swimming forward once more, out on the winter streets, lost in a cloud of smoke, her old tears from her younger days merging with this current countenance, ghosts of her cold, dead eyes gazing solemnly up at him._

"_So tell me," she whispered, "Got me all worked out yet?"_

"_That's your true beauty," he murmured. His voice was low. "You're impossible."_

_There was some horrid tension hanging in the air for a split second, and in an instant it became jagged and broken between them then; a moment that had been wrought with oppression suddenly had something tender about it, something gentle in both of their movements as they swayed a little, as she let her entire weight collapse into him, seeking blind comfort. She could pretend all she liked, she could dance and twist her words and confound everyone in her path but it always came down to this in the end, the lost little runway, the little girl. She was right; he adored it, loved to watch her succumb to that person, because it meant that he was always better, always above her, always right, always the victor._

_He pressed his nose against the side of her forehead, his lips close to her ear._

"_Do you feel like taking a risk, Irene?"_

"_It's not fair; it's only a risk for me. You won't even feel anything. You're heartless like that."_

"_You should try it some time."_

"_You're curious. You think it would be interesting. You don't want it."_

"_I think it's more of a case of what you want, actually."_

_Her kiss was a dull, lifeless thing, yet a desperation was lurking somewhere, an urgency. Slow, almost maddeningly so, and she was leaning into him so heavily he had no choice but to gather her in his arms, stop her from crumbling, her dry lips dragging across his own. Would it be as interesting, he wondered, with this version of her, this ghost, this kicked puppy, this broken girl? Would it still have that mad spark he'd always suspected was there, still make her scream as he'd always imagined she would? Still interesting, though, there was still something there, something worth exploring, something that he'd mindlessly fantasized about since he was fifteen. Something fascinating._

_He felt an absurd little thrill as she wound her fingers over his closed hand, still planting lazy, heartless kisses on his mouth, and he let her take the bag from him, let her open it, let her run the stuff across her gums, let her sink into her smile, and he followed her down, licking it from her lips, letting the sensation that bloomed within him utterly drown him. He'd only ever done the stuff with her, he realised, didn't make much sense without her, he liked having someone else to blame for his wonderful faults._

"_Nice," she groaned, wrapping her gangly arms around his neck, pressed flush against him, a silent sob in her voice and he regarded her seriously, holding back his elation, drawing the first moment out for as long as he could._

"_Is it?"_

"_Nicest with you."_

_He let himself fall onto the yellow and white gingham sheets, let himself smell the organic pleasure of it, and in a sudden moment of intense passion that claimed him with no warning at all, he groaned, gripped her neck with an agonized, rough hand, pulled her to him. It was new, this intensity, and it seemed to shock even her- her, infallible, unshakable, her who had somehow lead him to this, and with a pained sigh she pulled away. They stared at each other in complete disorientation, both breathless, her eyes heavy-lidded and swimming with something too dark to be anything but-_

_-love.  
_

_He swallowed. He saw it clearly then, their life together, and felt all but ten years old, foolish, ignorant, so alone. He thought it might be something like fear that made the hand that was woven through her dark hair tremble, that made him run his large, calloused thumb across the deathly white, tearstained plain of her cheek._

_He kissed her this time, and it was so gentle it almost hurt. He could hear the quiet cry she held back as she clung to him; he let her do everything she wanted to do so utterly slowly, with so much care, with deliberation, with love._

_Because he knew, then, that she must surely love him. Couldn't mistake it, couldn't stop himself from looking into her eyes and seeing the sepia-toned, horribly deranged stare of Debbie Davids stare back, couldn't stop the realisation that she was his, he had her, had her all to himself. He'd thought the drug had claimed her but she always saved some for him, always saved a piece of herself._

_Very interesting.

* * *

_

The memory had surged between them, stammering through both their heads along with the sound of bullets, more frequent; he heard the wood of the door splinter. He remembered it acutely, how she'd sobbed. How she'd screamed at exactly the right pitch, with exactly the right madness, how he'd somehow lost something of himself that night, the first night, and every night since. How she'd whispered words in his ear, some tender, some filth, how she'd moaned them, how tangled up in blasted emotion they'd both become in that moment, only that moment, suspended in time, haunting them both. And he'd let himself; he _wanted _to feel it, wanted to know what it was like, wanted to experience everything that she did.

Did he let himself fall in love with her?

_You won't even feel anything. You're heartless like that._

But he could feel something now, like he had on that night in the so very distant past. Something like pain.

"You've always been better than me," she said in such a quiet voice, pulling away from him. Her goodbye, he realised. She'd run when this was over and she'd never look back.

"The best," he murmured, before kissing her roughly and slamming the door, locking her in.

* * *

He blinked. He couldn't see and he couldn't breathe. For a moment all he could feel was white hot pain behind his eyes, a choking sensation that numbed his entire body with an icy sort of terror, drowning him and mocking him and leaving dying screams trapped in his throat...

He needed a fix.

He could hear something far off, on the edges of his mind, panicked breathing, choked sobs, dry screams and they merged with the incoherent images that had suddenly begun to blur his vision. He couldn't remember anything, found he was staring up into a vague shadow of some mystery person, a stranger to him, a shape simply hovering through the light and he forced something out, something he didn't know or understand, a noise he didn't recognise.

"_Irene…"_

"Sadly, no."

Light and shape blurred for a moment, the shadowy figure stepped forward. Mycroft.

"I was shot," he remembered.

"Yes."

And then the rest of his memories surged forward. Hideous. Ugly. How he'd opened the door without thinking and the world had tilted sideways in an instant, an immediate shot, how blood had bloomed across his shirt.

And before the sight of it all sunk into utter darkness, there'd been a sound, a sound that still seemed to be echoing in his ears now, such a terrible, agonized cry. A scream. He remembered it.

Her scream.

"She's dead, isn't she."

Mycroft felt the need to hesitate before he responded.

"Yes."


	6. 2010: Part 1

Thank you for your lovely reviews as always. This one's a little shorter than normal. The next (and I think last) chapter should be up within the month. Enjoy.

Ruby :o) x

* * *

_October 2010_

"Did he love her, then?"

That was the first logical question that had struck him, although he could barely comprehend the idea, and he let it out without thinking about it. There was something awful about it all though, John thought, something horrific. Did it explain a lot?

He glanced with unease at the figure by the window, the umbrella clasped in an iron grip, a comfort to him, perhaps. A way of dealing with everything.

"What a delightfully naïve thought. My brother is not capable of it, Dr. Watson."

"Well it sounds to me like he did."

Mycroft cast a horrible shadow, John thought, something sinister about his movements, the way he spoke in such a slow and deliberate manner, the disdain in his eyes as he'd told the story Sherlock had refused to. He thought back to the morning, to the icing on the wall, to the great purple tin, to the violin in pieces, to the clouds of smoke. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sherlock vanished without a word; there was some dull emotion in his eyes, and John's heart suddenly and inexplicably ached for him, unknowingly and unthinkingly. The pain, the unmistakable _pain_ that had surfaced in his roommate, that had shattered his face without mercy; it had scared him a little, the idea that he had such a tumultuous past not truly understandable. He'd thought of him as part of the city, unchanging, a man who'd sprung from the pavement fully formed, and he laughed at the absurdity of it, laughed at the thought of him being more than what he was- a man.

So he needed to know the story.

"I don't presume to know _how _he feels…" Mycroft said, his eyes heavy "But love, Dr Watson, is a different kind of beast when it comes to my brother. And certainly nothing like what he shared with her."

He'd shared something with her, though. Something meaningful, some connection- it was something worth holding on to, surely. And John was shocked at himself, shocked that he thought such a turbulent relationship was worth salvaging, after all the horror they put one another through.

But it was Sherlock. It was a connection with another human being. It was _significant_.

"Did you know she was alive?" he asked in a quiet voice, shifting in his seat before the desk, pulling at the collar of his jumper, anxiety crawling up his spine.

"Of course. I knew of her every step."

"You kept it from him."

"I saved his life."

He felt some odd feeling then, some protective urge in him. He didn't know where it was from. He felt cheated, though, felt a dull kind of horror pressing at his temples.

"You could have saved her." His voice was broken, impossibly quiet. "You could have helped her recover, helped her get clean…"

Mycroft let out a despairing sigh, summoning the strength to glare at him, the entire situation obviously having some profound effect on him.

"You are far too simplistic, John. Things are never black and white."

"You left her there…" John said with sudden authority, finding his voice, finding some strength that was fuelled by unbridled, white-hot anger. "You _left her!_ Just left her laying there, a bullet in her stomach! Even Sherlock wouldn't have condemned her to that!"

"She was alive," Mycroft muttered, and John thought he saw a spark of guilt in his eyes for a split second, but it vanished. "She was strong. Too strong for her own good."

"She was _terrified!"_

"Irene Adler single-handedly destroyed him, John," Mycroft all but yelled at him, taking one sweeping step towards him. "She brought it all upon herself."

John stood up in a sudden rage, feeling a little sick, feeling lost. Irene. _Irene. _What had she been like, for Sherlock to hold her in such deep regard? _Had _it been love, that awful burden that he couldn't possibly imagine plaguing the man- had they shared some deeper, infinitely darker bond? He didn't understand how it worked, no one did, but he knew you didn't go through a trauma with someone without being inexplicably linked to them in the aftermath, didn't escape it without leaving a piece of yourself behind. Their roots went farther back into history than he could have possibly imagined and he thought that there was something unfair there, thought there was unfinished business, words left unsaid.

Thought that the real pain for Sherlock must have been never solving the puzzle.

"He made his own decisions, Mycroft," John muttered darkly, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and pulling it on aggressively. It sounded like a weak argument but he could do nothing but defend the man who wasn't here to defend himself- and, John thought, even if he had been there, he'd likely be defending him anyway. "But at least he was always honest about it."

"Well I'm sure I don't have to tell you about the grueling rehabilitation that followed the incident; that's another story."

"I've had enough stories from you, thanks."

"You're unlikely to get anymore from _him."_

And as he turned to leave, Mycroft's departing words rang like a wail in his ears.

"She hasn't tried to contact him in ten years. She wants something from him, John. She always does."

* * *

Oh, it was the smell. The _stench_ that had drowned the flat, that had woken him up like nothing else, it might as well have been a gunshot. It was like a punch to the stomach and his first instinct was to vomit.

Butter-cream.

Not interesting. Not fascinating. Not all the glorious things he'd once associated with her; this was like horror, like _pain, _and that awful smell of butter cream was the source of it, the source of her, and the only way to get rid of it, the only way to steady his hand was to smoke it out. In a way, that was worse, because the combination of the two, the icing and the tobacco, well; it was as though her ghost had possessed the room, her smile dripping from every ridiculous letter on the wall, her deranged gaze fixed upon him from within the shadows.

He'd stared at it numbly for a long, long time, trying to process it but feeling something that hadn't risen within him for a decade, something he'd banished from his system, something rotten and thick with despair. And it wasn't from the realisation that she was still here, still in the world, it wasn't from the realisation that she'd not tried to find him before this moment; it wasn't even the thought that his brother had lied to him.

It was the thought that he'd been _wrong_ for all these years. The idea that she'd outwitted him in the worst possible way.

And in a fit of rage that hadn't plagued him since he was little more than a teenager, he'd grabbed the first thing he could reach with his hand and smashed it into the wall. His violin. The sound was quite satisfying.

He didn't even look in the tin.

The cab hadn't cost as much as he'd thought it might- or perhaps he was a little numb, a little lost, and hadn't even paid attention as he'd handed the money over and mumbled the long-lost address to the shadow behind the wheel. Words he was sure had _never _passed his lips, because that place was so far from him in every possible way, not even a distant memory anymore, something less. Nostalgia- at the end of the day it was pain, weakness, and he'd had no use for it because he'd had nothing to be nostalgic for, nothing he cared to reminisce about. He only lived in the now.

But instead of blindly disregarding his past, it was thrust into his life once more, each dark nuance of it clawing its way into his carefully ordered life, a steady thrum of activity he'd fought so hard to maintain. It seemed all it took was one mention of her to send it all into chaos.

He sat silent and still in the back of the cab, the sky outside so dark it might be nighttime, the weather beginning to turn cruel and he was sickened at how appropriate it all was. It was cold. Too cold.

And somehow, he made himself remember the worst of it all.

* * *

_December, 1999_

_Always cold, now. The sun would rise and fall, rise and fall, and it felt like it was mocking him, smiling merrily in the sky beyond the horizon, beyond the trees and the hills and the glass barrier that separated him from the rest of the loathsome world. That window had become his only companion and he supposed on some quiet, peaceful days he quite enjoyed it that way. Found a little solace in the grey, rolling clouds and the frost on the glass and the white sun that strived on anyway, even though everything he could see on earth would have you believe it didn't exist at all._

_Everything was dying. _

_So was he._

_Rehabilitation. It had come to a point where not a single thing on the earth made any sense to him, where nothing mattered, not life, not love, not everything that had happened to bring him here; it was all pointless, all trivial, all…nothing. Sometimes he cried out with the pain of it. Hurt his throat, thought in his most wild moments that if he hurt it enough it might kill him completely. It was much worse during the day because that meant it was all real, that he'd really arrived here, the penultimate stop on the line._

_He'd die soon. He held on to that thought._

_At night, though…night seemed like a comfort. Because night was an endless mystery, the darkness always home to something sinister, something hidden, and his mind adored it on the most basic, primitive way possible._

_It was on the worst night of all did he finally turn the corner._

"_Is this madness?" he croaked, heavy eyes staring at the shadow of a figure in the corner. The room was so thick with darkness, the sharp slits of orange light from the corridor beyond his room making phantom shapes appear across the walls, and by this point he was used to it. This time though- it was a figure he knew, a figure he knew couldn't be there. He must have finally reached that point, he thought, the moment that either helped you survive or broke you completely._

"_You're hallucinating," the shadow responded. It shared her voice. _

"_A sound deduction, seeing as this is quite impossible."_

"_I thought that's what you liked best about me."_

_He felt his dry, cracked lips curve up into a painful, self-mocking smile, quite impressed with his own mind for conjuring up such an accurate representation of her. She must have become far more attached to him than he realised- or maybe it was he that had fixed himself to her. Either way, he decided to appreciate the moment for the gift that it was, tried to ignore the horror that came with it, the thought that his mind, his most loyal companion, was letting him down. _

_Tried to ignore the guilt at the sight of her._

_Unthinking, his hand was reaching out to her and he was sure if he blinked she would vanish. He tried it, closing his eyes in a slow, endless manner, the darkness complete. When he opened them she'd moved closer, her outline a ghostly orange line, the curve of her cheek, the stray hairs that danced around her head. He thought she might be a child again, the fairy-tale girl he'd met in the woods. His hand fell limp onto the mattress when she didn't take it._

"_Haunting me, are you?" he asked quietly. He could have been loud- he didn't care if they came in and found him talking to himself- but the moment, it seemed, required something subtler, more delicate. _

"_You could say that," she replied, the quiet laughter in her voice gone, replaced by something sinister. "I'd argue that it's the other way round."_

"_Contradicting me, even in death."_

_The word shattered the air around them and he felt something in his chest constricting, like a bullet, like a familiar pain. He groaned; she was still._

"_No…" he muttered, clamping his eyes shut. "Leave me…just leave me…"_

"_I'm unsure if I like seeing you suffer. I'm not sure it's what you deserve."_

"_People die. Everywhere, every moment."_

"_And would you die a thousand deaths to take back that night?"_

_He heard the laughter this time, her words so melancholy and dramatic and she knew it, knew it was teasing, knew it was cruel. His palm covered his eyes; he was sweating, rigid with some fever, wild, trapped. He forced himself to remain still._

_Suddenly there was a frozen sensation on his jaw- her palm rested there. He didn't move his hand, didn't open his eyes, the sensation so real, so well-constructed, he marveled once more at how perfect this hallucination was, at how his memories had somehow given him her touch, her skin upon his. He choked, missing it so completely, grieving for her at last, here, in the throes of madness. He could smell butter-cream._

"_I'm not asking it of you," she whispered, and he heard the sorrow there._

"_I might," he said, his voice low and heavy with something mournful. "If I could. I might."_

"_You wouldn't. And if you did I'd hate you for it."_

_Again, that bitter smile that only hurt to surrender to, the simple pleasure of having someone who truly understood him. Her greatest tragedy, she'd said. _

"_I've lost you," he finally admitted, felt his throat constricting, and he blindly reached for her wrist, finding it miraculously, hating his mind now, hating this torture, this cruelty. Hating that he was too slow, that he'd realised everything too late, too late. He felt her thumb dance in a slow movement across the stubble on his neck._

"_You should never have had me to begin with," she said; he could hear the effort of holding back tears. "I lead you here. I lead us both here."_

"_Never a dull moment though," he forced out, and he felt his mouth form a grimace of pain, felt the sting behind his eyes. And he realised that this struggle, that these endless days locked away from the world, well, it wasn't in an effort to escape the drug, it was to rid himself of her. Get her out of his system. Cleanse himself, get rid of the poison. _

_And the horrible truth of the matter was, he was afraid. Afraid of having to face that awful world without someone who truly knew him. Afraid of living without that constant presence, that being that had become such a comfort to him he hadn't even noticed, took for granted the fact that there was someone there to call on, to fight with, to share his view of the world, to understand. _

_He realised the irony of it all, of course. _

"_All this time trying not to feel," she whispered, as if reading his mind. "You didn't see it coming did you."_

_It was like a cry, a hollow sound in his throat, and she gripped the hand that covered his face, held it to her own, pressed her lips against it. He did not dare open his eyes._

"_But it's not real, don't you see?" she all but sobbed. His fingers brushed against the thick, wet tearstain on her jaw. "It's a passion. It's…all consuming. It's not love. It'll just leave you hurting. One day you'll feel simply happy. Rid yourself of this hate, all this sorrow. You'll find someone who makes you content. "_

"_I don't know anything else. Only you."_

_He heard a sigh. The last breath of her she had left to give, all the rest stolen by him._

"_It's a good thing for you I'm dead then, isn't it."

* * *

_

He should have questioned it at the time, the accuracy of it all. He'd written it off as nothing but insanity, a dream; he'd been so lost in those weeks, could barely remember them now. But that memory refused to leave him; he managed to bring it to the surface with no effort, as if it had been there all along, waiting for him to catch up, waiting for him to see the truth.

He saw it all, now. Every lovely, awful moment spent with her. A passion. All consuming. He'd fallen asleep that night with her palm still resting on his jaw, he remembered it so clearly, so impossibly, and by the time the sterile, cold morning had arrived she was of course gone. A phantom, a nightmare even, because those emotions, that terrible guilt that had plagued him that night as it did now; he couldn't allow it, it almost frightened him. It seemed that this was a fear far greater than that of simply being alone; he'd managed that well enough.

Then he'd found John. Then he'd found contentment. She had been right.

That was the worst of it all.

By the time he arrived it was almost dusk, the burnt out streetlamps flickering obnoxiously above him, the horizon dense with the bronze glow. He walked along wearily, the road empty, the first signs of frost starting to creep in on the pavement below him. He thought of cigarettes.

His eyes wandered to the row of houses to his left, searching for his own lost home. His mother didn't live there anymore, she had moved out long ago- remarried. He hadn't attended the wedding, which had upset her, but Mycroft had, which somehow upset her even more. Didn't do to think about his mother, though. He'd cut that tie long ago.

The building meant less than nothing to him now. He could see the silhouettes of its current inhabitants; the rich glow of life from within didn't alter his course, didn't stop him in his tracks. They were mere anomalies, another group of faceless strangers that made up the swell of people around him. He was linked to them in no way whatsoever.

Step after heavy step, his eyes fixed solemnly on the ground now, he almost missed what he was looking for. Except it wasn't what he was looking for. What he was looking for was gone completely.

No more blue bricks. No more empty, haunted house. It was a pile of rubble.

And there was a small figure stood amongst it all.


End file.
